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SHEER PLUCK 
AND OTHER STORIES 


SANCTITY’S ROMANCE 

Stories of the Bright Ages ^ 

Volume II 

This is the second volume of a series of complete 
stories dealing with various periods of what may be aptly 
called the Bright Ages. Though they are such as fond 
mothers tell their boys and girls, they will interest older 
readers. In fact, they are of interest to all who love the 
history of the Church and the noble and saintly array of 
saintly and heroic personages whose deeds will live 
forevermore, and whose lives are a portion of that 
treasure of holiness which is the heritage of all the 
children of the Church. While principally legends and 
semi-historical tales, they are as fascinating as any ro- 
mance, while the varnish of truth enhances their charm 
and attracts the reader. 

IN THE SAME SERIES 
Volume I 

Melor of the Silver Hand,_-: i2mo, cloth, 85 cents. 


Sheer Pluck 

AND OTHER STORIES 
OF THE 

BRIGHT AGES 


BY 

REV. DAVID BEARNE, S.J. 

Author of *' Charlie Chittywick,^* ** Ridingdale Flower Show,” 
"The Witch of Ridingdale,** etc. 


New York, Cincinnati, Chicago 

BENZIGER BROTHERS 

Printers to the Holy yfpostolic See 

1908 



SHEER PLUCK. 


I. 

If the world has an esteem for any particular virtue, that 
virtue is fortitude. Under the name of pluck every man 
admires this quality and loves to see it in action. It appeals 
to men of every class ; to the old as much as to the young ; to 
women as well as to men. A lack of this virtue is peculiarly 
humiliating both to man and boy: possession of it in any 
uncommon degree raises the individual to the rank of a hero. 

St. Thomas tells us that we may regard fortitude in two 
ways: (i) As meaning a certain firmness of mind and 
purpose; (2) as signifying firmness in the enduring and 
resisting of those difficulties in which it is hardest to have 
firmness. 

Fortitude, then, is a certain moral strength or courage — 
unyielding courage in the endurance of pain and adversity. 
With physical or structural strength it has nothing to do. 
The use of the Latin fortitude in connection with bodily 
strength is very rare ; its employment in English in the same 
sense is said to be obsolete. 

As one of the four cardinal virtues it is therefore strength 
or firmness of mind or soul which enables a person to do 
and to dare, to suffer and to endure without murmurs or 
complaint or depression. It is the foundation of, the source 


8 


SHEER PLUCK. 


and basis of, all courage and bravery, of all patience in 
suffering, of all forbearance and magnanimity. In one 
word, it is Manliness. 

*The principal act of fortitude is endurance,' says St. 
Thomas, and he defines endurance as ‘‘the remaining steady 
and unflinching in dangers, rather than attacking.” Endur- 
ance is more difficult than taking the offensive, he tells us. 
To attack another supposes that we have the upper hand ; if 
we are attacked, the opponent is probably the stronger. 
Again, endurance supposes a long time, but one may attack 
by a sudden movement. “It is harder to remain long im- 
movable than with a sudden motion to move forward to an 
arduous task.” 

To prove that mere physical courage is vastly inferior to 
fortitude is unnecessary : the task would be like the flogging 
of a dead ass. Perhaps only a very small boy, or a very 
foolish man, has ever ventured to deny that the ruling of 
one’s self is a harder and braver thing than the taking of 
a strong city. Nevertheless, in the minds of many there is 
a lamentable tendency to confuse animal courage with moral 
bravery, and to prefer a spirit of mere brutal combativeness 
to that grand endurance of pain and suffering which can 
alone raise a man to the rank of the truly heroic. 

Disgusted with a life-long reading of the lives of men who 
became less heroic the more he knew of them, Edward Fitz- 
gerald exclaimed: “I think there is but one Hero: and 
that is the Maker of Heroes.” We may applaud this senti- 
ment even while we point out that if the Incarnate God is 


SHEER PLUCK. 


9 


the Maker of heroes, those heroes have lived or are living. 
“Know you not that the Saints shall judge this world ?’" asks 
St. Paul of the Corinthians; and he reminds the Thessalo- 
nians of “the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ with all His 
saints,” and again, that “He shall come to be glorified in 
His saints.” 

There never was a saint who was not also a hero ; but of 
how few of those heroes, so-called, whose names are hon- 
oured by the world, can we say that they were in any degree 
saintly ? 

To set forth the lives of the Saints of God merely as so 
many examples of fortitude, as so many models of pluck, 
would be an easy and a grateful task. But it would scarcely 
give us a complete portrait of these true heroes of earth and 
heaven. For the topmost thing about them is — ^their love 
of God above all things, their love of the neighbour for God’s 
sake. Self-love, the universal vice — selfishness in every 
form — self-interest, self-pity, self-complacency, self-conceit, 
self-seeking, self-enjoyment, self-pleasing, self-conscious- 
ness, self-exaltation, self-deceit, self-will, self-esteem, self- 
indulgence — each and every one of these bad qualities was 
met and fought and done to death by the Saints of God. 
They are saints just because they were not lovers of self. 
They were canonised not so much because of the external 
wonders they wrought, nor because of the miracles they per- 
formed, but precisely because they loved God and their 
neighbour in a degree that was in every sense of the word 
heroic. 


10 


SHEER PLUCK. 


II. 

Among the many early saints who are renowned for their 
courage, the young Simeon Stylites is a magnificent example. 

Born in the year 390, he lived in Sisan, a little town in 
Cilicia on the borders of Syria. His father was a poor shep- 
herd, and like Joseph and David the boy looked after his 
father’s sheep. One day in the depth of winter when it was 
impossible to lead the sheep to pasture, the young Simeon 
went to assist at the Offices of the Church. Whether he 
heard the Beatitudes read and commented upon for the first 
time we are not told; but it is certain that their meaning 
came home to him that day with great force. Blessed are 
they that mourn: Blessed are the clean of heart — these in 
particular struck the thirteen-year-old boy and made him 
thoughtful. He could not be happy until he had asked a 
certain old man to expound the meaning of these moving 
words of Christ, and when he understood them he begged to 
be told how the promised blessedness could be obtained. 
Doubtless it was pointed out to him that every Christian had 
the choice of two roads — that of the precepts and that of the 
counsels. One was harder and narrower and more toilsome 
than the other, but it was safer and better for those who 
were called by God to enter upon it and was for them the 
high road to happiness and to perfection. 

Then Simeon began to pray, and his prayer was no hur- 
ried recital of an Our Father or a Hail Mary. He was brave 
and fearless — this young shepherd lad, and he was deter- 


SHEER PLUCK. 


II 


mined to listen to the voice of God. In secret he prayed as 
though life itself depended upon his prayer. Prostrate on 
the ground he implored God to guide and enlighten him. 

Exhausted, perhaps, by the length and vehemence of his 
prayer, he fell asleep, and in his sleep he was permitted to 
see a vision. 

The lad dreamed that he was digging — digging deeply for 
the foundations of a house. Toiling hard, he was compelled 
to stop now and then in order to take breath. Four times, 
he afterward said, did he rest for an instant, and each time 
he distinctly heard a voice calling to him and saying — ''Dig 
Deeper!” At length he was told to cease. The pit was 
deep enough for the foundations of whatever structure he 
cared to raise upon it. 

‘‘The event,” says an ancient writer, “verified the pre- 
diction. The after-life of this wonderful lad was so superior 
to nature that it might well require the deepest possible foun- 
dation of humility and fervour.” 

Not far from his father’s house there was a monastery 
under the care of a holy abbot named Timothy. Rising 
from sleep Simeon betook himself to the gate of this re- 
ligious house. Though not the only way by which perfec- 
tion may be reached, the boy knew that the monastic life was 
the best and readiest means of attaining such an end. Yet 
his humility did not permit him to ask for the religious 
habit. To be the drudge of the servants of the servants of 
God was his only aspiration at this time. For several days 
and nights he lay prostrate at the gate without taking either 


12 


SHEER PLUCK, 


food or drink, begging that he might be admitted as the 
lowest of the hired servants of the Abbot. His request was 
eventually granted, and for four months with great fervour 
and affection he undertook the meanest offices of the abbey. 

It would almost appear that during these months he was 
regarded as a novice — at any rate as a postulant, for it is 
expressly said of him that he undertook that first task of a 
novice — not imposed in primitive times only, but still en- 
joined in some of the ancient religious orders — ^the learning 
by heart of the one hundred and fifty psalms of David. 
What a precious possession for a young mind ! The entire 
psalter committed to memory — every one of those priceless 
hymns ready to pass from mind to lips at any moment of 
the day or night ! 

In this monastery Simeon remained for two years, ever 
advancing in love and humility and gaining the esteem and 
good-will of his older religions brethren. 

Whether the boy-monk now wished to place himself at a 
greater distance from home or parents, or whether he wished 
to joiti a stricter community, we are not told; but at the age 
of fifteen Simeon passed to the Monastery of Heliodorus, an 
abbot of great sanctity, who had passed sixty-two of the 
sixty-five years of his life in this community. 

It is now that the lad began that wonderful life of morti- 
fication which in an age and in a part of the world where 
penance and fasting were very ordinary matter-of-fact occur- 
rences, made Simeon Stylites renowned. We must not for- 
get who and what he was. As a poor shepherd boy he had 


SHEER PLUCK, 


13 


lived a simple open-air life, and his food had always been the 
food of the poor. Doubtless his frame was a sturdy one 
and his constitution vigorous and healthy. We know not 
what his particular reason may have been for eating but 
once a week. We know nothing of his interior trials and 
temptations. We know, too, that fasting is but a means to 
an end, and that perfection does not consist in afflicting the 
body. No one knew this better than Simeon himself, but 
he loved God above all things and he wanted to prove his 
love. Let it be frankly admitted that at this time of his 
life he made mistakes; but better than all the penances and 
fastings and mortifications was the obedience he showed to 
his Superior. Heliodorus forbade him to fast for so long 
a time, and Simeon at once yielded — only however to fall 
into an indiscretion of another kind. 


III. 

It may be that fierce temptations afflicted the pure soul of 
this growing boy, and that he was heroically determined 
to overcome them at any cost. Round and round his body 
next to the skin he bound a rough, thick well-rope, made of 
the big, hard-twisted leaves of the palm-tree. He did this 
unknown to his Superior or to any of his brethren. That 
this instrument of penance caused him great suffering is cer- 
tain. The rope began to eat into his flesh and a terrible 
abscess was the result. A physician had to be called in to cut 


14 


SHEER PLUCK. 


the cords. He was compelled to make incisions in the fleshy 
and these nearly cost the patient his life. For three days 
liquids had to be applied to soften the shreds of clothing that 
clung to the wound, and it is said that for some time the boy 
lay as though he were dead. But he recovered — only to be 
dismissed from the monastery. 

Let this not be forgotten. Simeon had erred, and the error 
cost him very dearly. His Abbot regarded such conduct 
as a dangerous singularity, prejudicial to true religious 
discipline, and he would have none of it. And, remember, 
this Abbot was a man of singular holiness, and one who 
for many years had led a life of great mortification. 

It is not clear for how long a time Simeon remained 
under the care of Abbot Heliodorus, but at the time of his 
dismissal the Saint was, probably, only a boy. Sadly wan- 
dering away from the monastery, he came in contact with a 
holy priest named Bassus, and at the foot of Mount Tel- 
nescin, or Thelanissa, he began to lead the life of a hermit. 
The Abbot Bassus — he had two hundred monks in his 
charge — became Simeon’s director. 

The boy was determined now to act only under obedience, 
and at the beginning of Lent when he asked permission to 
abstain from all food and drink during the entire forty days, 
the Abbot gave him ten loaves of bread and a supply of 
water, charging him to eat if he found it necessary. Com- 
ing to him at Easter with the Most Blessed Sacrament, 
Bassus found the young hermit stretched upon the ground, 
apparently dead. The loaves and the water had not been 


SHEER PLUCK. 


15 


touched. Reviving him a little by moistening his lips 
with a sponge, the priest gave him Holy Communion. A 
little later Simeon broke his fast upon lettuce leaves and 
herbs. 

In this hermitage he spent three years, and then built for 
himself at the top of the mountain — not a hut, not even a 
shed, but a sort of wall, a roofless screen that afforded him 
little or no shelter from the cold of the mountain top. Then 
he had an iron ring riveted round his right leg and connected 
by a great chain to the rock upon which he lived. Among 
those who visited him at this time was Meletius, vicar of 
the Patriarch of Antioch, who told him that a firm will and 
the grace of God would keep him to his purpose without the 
wearing of a fetter. At once the obedient Simeon sent for a 
smith and had the shackle removed. 

And now the Saint’s troubles began. Day after day the 
mountain was thronged with the crowds who came to him 
to be cured of their diseases, to listen to his exhortations, or 
to receive his blessing. The distraction caused by these 
visits, to a man whose only longing was to be alone with 
God, may be imagined. 

For the next thirty-seven years of his life he lived on 
pillars, beginning with a column of stone six cubits high. 
After four years he raised a second one of twelve cubits. 
Three years later he built another one, twenty-two cubits in ' 
height, and remained upon it for ten years. But for the last 
twenty years of his life he lived upon a pillar built for him 
by the people — a column that reached the height of forty 


i6 


SHEER PLUCK. 


cubits Thus he was to be known in history as the Stylites, 
from the Greek stylos, a pillar. 

Tennyson’s poem on the Saint is known to all English- 
speaking readers. It is in many respects an exceedingly fine 
piece of versification, but it gives us an absurdly imperfect 
portrait of St. Simeon. Like most Protestant readers and 
perhaps a few unthinking Catholic ones, Lord Tennyson 
misses the secret of the hermit’s sanctity, and the leading 
characteristic of the Saint’s life. Some portions of the long 
soliloquy that the poet puts into Simeon’s mouth are im- 
possible; yet the late Laureate had evidently studied his 
subject with care and tried to treat it sympathetically. 

The refrain of this poetical monologue is indeed exactly 
what we might expect from a saint — “Have mercy. Lord, 
and take away my sin.” This was undoubtedly the burden 
of St. Simeon’s prayer ; but a poet who could put the follow- 
ing into the mouth of Stylites proves that he read the lives 
of the saints to little purpose : 

O Jesus, if Thou wilt not save my soul, 

Who may be saved? W'ho is it may be saved? 

Who may be made a saint, if I fail here? 

Nor would Simeon in his prayer make a catalogue of the 
penances he had practised since his boyhood : 

For not alone this pillar-punishment. 

Not this alone I bore: but while I lived 
In the white convent down the valley there. 

For many weeks about my loins I wore 

The ropes that hauled the buckets from the well, 

Twisted as tight as I could knot the noose; 

'Dr. Arbuthnot reckons the Roman cubit at 17V10 inches. 


SHEER PLUCK. 


17 


And spoke not of it to a single soul, 

Until the ulcer, eating through my skin. 

Betrayed my secret penance, so that all 
My brethren marvell’d greatly. More than this 
I bore, whereof, O God, Thou knowest all. 

We have already pointed out that for this particular in- 
discretion the young monk was dismissed from his “white 
convent/’ and we may be quite sure that afterwards he bit- 
terly regretted the “not speaking to a single soul” of such 
self-inflicted punishment. Even though he might be con- 
scious of having had a good intention in the matter, he 
would certainly not look back upon it with complacency, or 
offer to Almighty God a singularity that, for the time at 
least, deprived him of his vocation. Tennyson was a great 
poet, and there are some wonderful lines in his St. Simeon 
Stylites; but the Laureate’s grasp of the principles of Cath- 
olic faith and practice was always a very loose one. 

It can never be repeated too often that mortification is not 
in itself sanctity; that in itself it is not the quality that 
raises a man to the altars of the Church. Sometimes it is 
a contributing cause to holiness of life; sometimes it is the 
natural effect of an overpowering love of God. Such mortifi- 
cations as these of the Stylites are not only not imitable, but 
they are not the actions that make him dear to the Catholic 
heart. That his penances were truly heroic, and that as an 
example of fortitude he is wonderful, even among the saints, 
may be granted ; but his claim upon our love and veneration 
comes precisely through his ready obedience, his profound 
humility, and his perfect charity. 


i8 


SHEER PLUCK. 


Bidden to descend from his pillar he at once complies. 
Twice every day he preached to the people, and his influence 
for good seems to have been almost unbounded. Not merely 
Christians but pagans and barbarians crowded to hear him. 
We read of an entire nation being converted to the Faith 
through his sermons and miracles. Persians, Armenians, 
and Iberians, made long pilgrimages to hear him : emperors, 
kings and queens came to consult him. The Empress Eu- 
doxia was rescued by him from the heresy of Eutychus : the 
Emperor Marcian came to him disguised as a poor pilgrim. 
Solitary as he was, St. Simeon did not live for himself 
alone.^ 

The following passage from the pen of a Protestant writer of the 
life of St Simeon is of interest: 

“The fame of the wondrous austerities of this man wrought upon 
the wild Arab tribes, and effected what no missionaries had been able, 
as yet, to perform. No doubt the fearful severities exercised by Simeon, 
on himself, are startling and even shocking. But the Spirit of God 
breathes where He wills, and thou canst not tell whence He cometh and 
whither He goeth. What but the divine Spirit could have caught that 
young boy’s soul away from keeping sheep, and looking forward to the 
enjoyment of youth and precipitated it into this course, so contrary to 
flesh and blood? Theodoret says, that as kings change the impression 
of their coins, sometimes stamping them with the image of lions, some- 
times of stars, sometimes of angels, so the divine Monarch produces 
different marks of sanctity at different periods, and at each period He 
calls forth these virtues, or characters He needs for a particular work. 
So was it now ; on the wild sons of the desert no missionaries had 
made an impression ; their rough hearts had given no echo to the sound 
of the Gospel. Something of startling novelty was needed to catch 
their attention and strike their imagination, and drag them violently 
to the cross. These wild men came from their deserts to see the 
weird, haggard man in his den. He fled from them as they crowded 
upon him, not into the wastes of sand, but up a pillar; first up one six 
cubits, then one twelve cubits, and finally one of thirty-six. The sons 


SHEER PLUCK, 


19 


Happy were they for whom he prayed, and blessed was she 
who bore him ; for we are told by a disciple of his that after 


of Ishmael poured to the foot of the pillar, ‘like a river along the roads, 
and formed an ocean of men about it. And,’ says Theodoret, ‘myriads 
of Ishmaelites, who had been enslaved in the darkness of impiety, 
were illuminated by that station on the column. For this most shin- 
ing light, set as it were on a candlestick, sent forth all around his 
beams, like the sun, and one might see Iberi, Persians, and Armenians, 
coming and receiving Divine Baptism. But the Ishmaelites (Arabs) 
coming by tribes, 200 and 300 at a time, and sometimes even 1,000, 
denied with shouts the error of their ancestors; and breaking in pieces 
the images they had worshipped, and renouncing the orgies of Venus, 
they received the Divine Sacraments, and accepted laws from that holy 
tongue. And this I have seen with my own eyes, and have heard them 
renouncing the impiety of their fathers, and assenting to evangelic 
doctrine.’ Here was the result. Little did the boy know, as he lay 
before the monastery door five days without eating, to what God had 
called him; for what work he was predestined, when he coiled the 
rope about his body. The Spirit had breathed, and he had followed 
the impulse, and now he wrought wdiat the tongue of a prophet could 
not have effected. And it was worth the pain of that rope torn from 
his bleeding body; it was recompense for those long fastings. 

“Three winters, that my soul might grow to Thee, 

I lived up there on yonder mountain side; 

My right leg chain’d into the crag. I lay 
Pent in a roofless close of ragged stones; 

Inswathed sometimes in wandering mist and twice 
Black’d with Thy branding thunder, and sometimes 
Sucking the damps for drink, and eating not. 

It was worth all this, if souls could be added to the Lord, as they 
were, by hundreds and thousands. God’s ways are not our ways. 
The God who needed these souls called up the soul of Simeon to do 
the work. Simeon obeyed, and traversed perhaps the most awful path 
man has yet trod. 

“It is not for us to condemn a mode of life which there is no need 
of men to follow now. It was needed then, and he is rightly numbered 
with the Saints, who submitted his will to that of God, to make him an 
instrument for His purpose.’’ 


20 


SHEER PLUCK. 


his mother’s death the Saint’s prayers for her were most 
fervent. Ever regarding himself as the vilest of sinners 
and the outcast of the world, his charity and sweetness to 
others had no limit. He was always ready to submit him- 
self to ecclesiastical authority, and the fact that the Patriarch 
of Antioch and other prelates and priests were willing to 
mount the column in order to give him Holy Communion, 
shows that his manner of life was blessed by God, and ap- 
proved by the Church. He died in 459, in the sixty-ninth 
year of his age. 


THE STORY OF EPHREM. 


I. 

In Nisibis, sixteen hundred years ago, lived a lad named 
Ephrem. He was the son of poor parents who were good 
Catholics and who had indeed suffered much for the Faith, 
for they lived in the terrible times of the Emperor Diocletian, 
and the wonder is that they are known only as confessors 
and not as martyrs. 

Their son gave them much trouble. ‘The wrath of his 
high spirits is his ruin,” says Ecclesiasticus. There is dan- 
ger in mere high spiritedness unless it is kept in check by 
prayer and sacraments. In itself it is a lovable quality 
enough, and one that, joined to the fear of God, is likely 
to result in something very good. The lightheartedness of 
the saints is a proverb. But high spirits in conjunction 
with a fiery and passionate temper, and a careless, heedless 
disposition, is bound to bring a man into great trouble — 
sometimes to irretrievable ruin. 

Ephrem's high spirits were of this description. Laziness 
opens the door to every kind of sin, and he seems to have 
been incurably idle. Ripe for mischief of every kind was 
Ephrem, for if he was sent on an errand by his parents he 
acted like the young man in the parable, saying, “I go, sir,” 


22 


THE STORY OF EPHREM. 


though he only made a pretence of going. He had some 
knowledge of the Catholic Faith, but according to the cus- 
tom of the age and the place his baptism had been put off. 

At first sight, stone-throwing on the part of a country 
boy does not seem a very serious matter, though when it 
is recklessly continued it may lead to very sad results. Wan- 
ton cruelty is quite another matter, and when we hear of 
Ephrem setting to work deliberately to stone a cow that was 
in calf, and continuing this until the poor beast fell dead, 
we feel that ‘‘Unpromising Material” is a very mild term 
to apply to him. 

The day upon which this happened he had been sent by 
his parents on an errand to a neighbouring town, and it was 
on his way out that the boy seems to have stoned the cow to 
death — spending hours at the task, for he drove it before 
him into a thick wood, and it was sunset before the animal 
expired. During the night it was eaten by wild beasts. 

Returning home the next day, Ephrem met on the road 
the poor man who owned the cow. Not suspecting that it 
was dead, but knowing something of the lad's character, the 
man asked him if he had driven the animal away. The only 
answer the poor fellow got was a torrent of abuse. 

Congratulating himself upon his escape from what might 
have been a serious charge — for the Syrian law in regard 
to property was a severe one — Ephrem was again sent out 
of town on some business for his parents. In passing 
through the wood he came across some shepherds, who 
proved such good company that he loitered with them until 


THE STORY OF EPHREM. 




nightfall. It was too late then to continue his journey, and 
so he stayed with them all night. 

When morning came there was a great to-do. During 
the night the fold had been broken into and some valuable 
sheep carried off. That Ephrem was in league with the 
robbers they never doubted. They thought that he had got 
up in the night and shown the way to the thieves, pointing 
out the best and fattest sheep. The boy protested and swore 
and cried, but they would not listen to him. Prison, said 
they, was the only place for him, and to prison they dragged 
him. 

Now in the matter of sheep-stealing — a crime for which 
men in our own country were hanged not so many years ago 
— Ephrem was entirely innocent, and when he found himself 
locked up he began to cry very bitterly. There was no one 
to help him, no one to pity him. It was his first experience 
of prison life and he found it painful. Yet there was worse 
to follow. To lie all day on his little heap of straw with 
heavy irons locked on his ankles was bad enough ; but what 
of the trial that was awaiting him ? Boy as he was, he had 
heard much of the awful tortures that were inflicted upon 
prisoners in the courts of that still pagan country, of the 
sentences of life-long slavery, of fearful mutilation, and of 
terrible modes of execution. In a land that was still heathen 
mercy was almost unknown, and Ephrem had not the small- 
est reason for hoping that his tender age would be a plea 
for pity. He knew that boys as young as himself, even 
younger, had been condemned to die on the gibbet for break- 


24 


THE STORY OP EPHREM. 


ing the laws of their country ; that some indeed had suffered 
the fearful death of crucifixion. 

The boy was not alone in his gloomy prison. Two men 
awaiting trial lay in chains in the same vault as himself. 
Both were accused of serious crimes, and both declared that 
they were innocent. This struck Ephrem as being very 
curious, and he began to think about it a good deal. Of 
the crime with which he was charged he knew himself to be 
innocent: was it possible that his fellow-prisoners were 
equally guiltless ? 

One night he dreamed a dream. He thought that some 
very noble-looking person came to his side and said to him : 
‘‘Ephrem, why are you in prison At once the boy began 
to declare his innocence. “Yes,” said the shining figure, 
“you are innocent of the crime of which you are accused: 
but what of the poor man's cow that you drove to its death ? 
Be quite sure that no one suffers without reason. And as 
a proof of this, when morning comes listen to the talk of 
your fellow-prisoners.” 

On the following day the two men spoke together, and 
one of them who was charged with murder said to the 
other: “I declare that I am not guilty of taking away the 
life of a fellow-creature ; but I will tell you of a vile thing I 
did only the other day. As I was passing over a bridge I 
came upon two men quarrelling. One of them at last took 
hold of the other and threw him into the river. Now if 
I had tried I believe I could have saved that man ; unhappily 
I did not, and the poor fellow was drowned.” 


THE STORY OF EPHREM, 


25 


Then to the utter astonishment of the boy the other man 
began to make a somewhat similar confession. “I am abso- 
lutely innocent of the thing for which I am awaiting my 
trial : nevertheless, I have done something which is very 
bad. A certain neighbour of mine when he was dying left 
his property to be divided between his daughter and his two 
sons. The young men wanted everything for themselves, 
and they bribed me to give false evidence by which the will 
was upset and the poor girl deprived of her share.” 

Nearly six weeks went by before Ephrem and his two 
companions were brought up for trial. The men were tried 
first, but the boy-prisoner was in court during the whole 
time. Neither of the men would confess — were they not 
both innocent ? — and, to the lad’s great horror, the rack was 
brought in, the men were stripped and fastened to it hand 
and foot. An awful terror came upon the boy as he saw 
his fellow-prisoners stretched out upon this instrument of 
torture, and his cries filled the hall. But the officers of the 
court and the people who were standing about were merely 
amused by his evident fright, and gave him the coldest of 
all cold comfort. 

‘What are you crying for, my lad?” they asked him. 
“It is of no use howling now. You should have thought of 
the rack before you stole the sheep. You are bound to get 
a taste of it very soon.” 

The boy was really half-dead with the anticipation of the 
torture that was before him, and it seems probable that he 
swooned away from sheer fright. Happily for his compan- 


THE STORY OF EPHRBM. 


ions, before their case was finished both of them were able 
to prove their innocence, and so they were set at liberty. 
But there was no time left that day for the trying of Ephrem 
and he was taken back to prison. 

In a few days he found himself with three companions in 
irons, instead of the two who had been released, and curi- 
ously enough the new prisoners turned out to be the two 
brothers who had defrauded their sister out of her property, 
and the man who had thrown his enemy into the river. So 
with these undesirable criminals Ephrem lay in prison for 
another six long weeks. 

A wretched time it must have been for the boy, with the 
terror of the torture still hanging over him, as well as the 
trial — at which it seemed quite possible that he would not 
be able to prove his innocence of the robbery. It is no won- 
der that he began to pray. Though still unbaptized, his 
good Catholic parents — the very thought of whom was an 
agony to him as he lay in prison — had carefully instructed 
him in the Christian Faith, and, like many another poor 
sinner, now that he found himself in serious trouble he 
turned his thoughts to God. He could not but feel that there 
was a certain fitness in his punishment, yet the horror of the 
rack was, naturally enough, strongly upon him, and with all 
his might he prayed God to have pity. 

At length the day came when the prisoners were chained 
together and brought to the place of trial. Again the grown- 
up criminals were examined first, and again that terrible 
rack was brought into operation. But this time the men were 


THE STORY OF EPHREM. 


27 


found guilty, and after being severely racked were sentenced 
to lose their right hands. 

Ephrem's turn had now come. Questioned by the judge, 
the young prisoner declared that he was innocent. ‘‘This is 
the plea of every criminal,'’ said the judge. “Here, take 
and strip him and fasten him on the rack." More dead than 
alive, the unhappy boy was stripped of his clothing and was 
about to have his hands and feet lashed to the wooden rollers 
of the rack, when a servant entered the court and told the 
judge that it was dinner-time, and that his meal was ready 
and waiting. 

“Very well," replied the judge; “in that case I will try 
this boy some other day. Take him back to gaol." 

So the lad escaped the rack this time also. In the ex- 
tremity of his terror he had made a vow that if only God 
would deliver him from the punishment he dreaded so much, 
he would become a monk. Well, he had been delivered that 
day just in the nick of time, in a most sudden and unexpected 
manner. But what of the dreadful future ? It seemed likely 
that that awful dislocation of his young limbs had only been 
put off to an unknown day. 

Happily for Ephrem, for this third trial he had not long 
to wait. It is probable that some good-hearted officer re- 
minded the court of the length of time the boy had been in 
prison; at any rate the judge thought that he had been pun- 
ished quite enough, and, to his intense joy, his shackles were 
removed, and he was set at liberty. 


28 


THE STORY OF EPHREM. 


II. 


What think you did the boy Ephrem do as soon as he 
found himself free? Did he go back home to his parents — 
stoning cattle by the way and stopping to play with every 
shepherd-lad he met ? By no means. 

Everybody knows the old couplet beginning 

The devil was sick, the devil a monk would be; 

and it is certain that many promises are made to God in 
time of sickness or peril that are not fulfilled in seasons of 
health and safety; but Ephrem had taken a vow and he in- 
tended to keep it. He knew that in the mountains not far 
off there lived an old hermit: to this holy man he would 
offer himself as a novice. 

It seems at first sight that for such a life no lad could 
have been less fitted. Probably he himself doubted very 
much if the hermit would accept him. However, he had 
made a vow, and he would do his best to fulfil it. He was 
not ignorant of the kind of life that he would be called upon 
to live: yet hard as the monastic rule might be he did not 
shrink from it. Hands and brain would both be fully em- 
ployed and his food would be of the scantiest ; but God had 
delivered him from prison and from torture, and Ephrem 
must needs prove his gratitude. The sufferings of the last 
three months had made him thoughtful. If an earthly prison 
was so gloomy, what would Hell be like? If the pain of 
the rack was so much to be dreaded, what of the punish- 
ment in that place of endless torment? 


THE STORY OF EPHREM. 


29 


The saintly old man to whom he went did not refuse to 
receive him. In good earnest Ephrem began to engage in 
two of the healthiest exercises known to man, viz., prayer 
and work. He became a sail-maker. At the same time 
he began to use his head. Through no fault of his parents, 
his education had been neglected and he had everything to 
learn. But he was in earnest, and when man or boy begins 
to put forth the full strength of his will, and the energies a 
good God has given him, there is not much that he can 
not do. 

Certainly Ephrem did wonders. There was that bad tem- 
per of his to control and to subdue, and like the sensible fel- 
low he was he began with that. 

The notable thing about this lad was his great earnestness. 
God had been good to him : Ephrem was bent upon proving 
his gratitude. Sorrow for sin became his chief exercise. 
He was determined to repair the past. But he had not with- 
drawn himself from the world in order to lead an idle life. 
Brain and hand were now fully occupied, and he was earning 
the bread he ate. In this way he bade farewell to idleness 
for evermore. For the rest, had he not put himself under 
the obedience of a holy and experienced Abbot ? And is not 
everything possible to the obedient ? 

No boy, no man becomes a saint in a day. Naturally bad- 
tempered, he had to struggle hard with his irritability and 
ill-humour : the point is that he did struggle, and that every 
such struggle, however unsuccessful it might seem to be, 
was a victory. Once after he had fasted for several days 


30 


THE STORY OF EPHREM. 


and was just going to sit down to a mess of herb pottage, the 
Brother who was carrying the bowl let it fall. “Well,” said 
Ephrem cheerfully to the rueful-looking monk, “if the pot 
won’t come to me, I must go to it.” So he took his seat on 
the floor and picked up what he could from the broken basin. 

Ephrem’s baptism made him a new creature. The past 
was forgiven; the sins of his youth were washed away. 
Grace was offered to him, and he accepted it fervently and 
thankfully — used it determinedly and assiduously. Hence- 
forth he was all for God. His was no half conversion. Ap- 
plying himself to manual labour, and at the same time exer- 
cising his memory by learning the whole of the Psalter, he 
gave himself generously to the duties of his vocation. It 
was soon discovered that his abilities were of a high order, 
and his Superiors encouraged him in the study of philosophy 
and theology. 

III. 

After long preparation Ephrem obtained leave to go to 
Edessa in order to hold conference with certain holy hermits 
who lived in the mountains close to that city, and here he 
remained. Receiving the Holy Order of deacon he began 
to preach, and his incredible fervour and zeal bore immense 
fruit. He who in his own life was such a wonderful ex- 
ample of penitence won from God the great gift of touching 
the hearts of sinners, and numerous were the souls that he 
brought to Christ. “He was possessed of an extraordinary 
faculty of natural eloquence. Words flowed from him like a 


THE STORY OF EPHREM, 


31 


torrent, which yet were too slow for the impetuosity and 
multitude of thoughts with which he was overwhelmed in 
speaking on spiritual subjects. His conceptions were always 
clear, his diction pure and agreeable. He spoke with ad- 
mirable perspicuity, copiousness, and sententiousness, in an 
easy unaffected style: and with so much sweetness, so 
pathetic a vehemence, so natural an accent, and so strong 
emotions of his own heart, that his words seemed to carry 
with them an irresistible power.” 

But he did not confine himself to preaching. To the glory 
of God and for the good of souls he began to use his pen. 
Though ignorant of Greek, he was a perfect master of 
Syriac, and in this language he wrote what may almost be 
described as a library of ascetical and theological books. 
Heaven had endowed him with the great gift of poetry, and 
this he used with the utmost skill to increase the knowledge 
and love of the Redeemer. Wonderful is the beauty and 
sweetness of his poems on the Nativity of our Lord and on 
the mysteries of religion, and perhaps no poet has ever writ- 
ten more eloquently or more worthily than Ephrem on the 
dignity and holiness of our Blessed Lady. Some of the 
heretics of his time, the Manichees, the Millenarians, and 
the Marionites, had spread their errors by means of songs 
and hymns; for these Ephrem substituted many beautiful 
compositions of his own — to the great spiritual gain of the 
people of Edessa. 

If the life of St. Ephrem — for Saint we must now call 
him — were not so well authenticated, and if so many of his 


32 


THE STORY OF EPHREM. 


writings were not in evidence, we might indeed hesitate to 
believe that the more than unpromising material of his boy- 
hood could have been moulded to the shape of a Doctor 
and a Father of the Catholic Church, and of one of the 
greatest masters of the spiritual life in the fourth century. 
It is true that the early life of this Saint is told in different 
ways by different authors, and this is easily accounted for. 
Ephrem himself frequently related the story of it to his 
monks and, as often happens in such cases, in writing it 
down they were not all equally accurate. Even the erudite 
Alban Butler gives a version which, in some of its items, 
does not tally with the more detailed and critical work of 
the Bollandists. Indeed it seems as though Father Butler 
thought that St. Ephrem exaggerated the wildness and sin- 
fulness of his youth ; though this learned hagiologist admits 
the stone-throwing episode, the false accusation of sheep- 
stealing, and the boy’s subsequent imprisonment and trial. 

But from the long and copious records of the Acta Sanc- 
torum it is clear enough that whatever many other men may 
have been, Ephrem the Syrian was not a Saint from his 
cradle. He may not have been a monster of iniquity, but 
it is certain enough that he gave no promise of sanctity. 
Probably indeed of all the boys in his neighbourhood he was 
the least likely to distinguish himself, either for learning 
or holiness. In short he is a marvellous example of a sin- 
ner who sincerely repents, asks for, receives, and uses the 
grace that God is always ready to give to those who really 
seek it. More than that, he is an example of one who in 


THE STORY OF EPHREM. 


33 


the beginning turned to our Lord from the motive of fear. 
It was sheer fright, the abject terror of the rack, that first 
made Ephrem cry mightily to Heaven. So there was noth- 
ing very noble, nothing in any way heroic, in the beginning 
of this wonderful change of life. Happily, that which be- 
gan in fear was continued in contrition, and ended in love. 
His deep sorrow for sin made him very dear to God. His 
soul was that of a true penitent, of one who walks humbly 
and proceeds cautiously, who has no trust in himself but an 
unbounded confidence in God. 

In the beginning of his conversion, probably the last thing 
he thought of was that he would ever be able to minister 
to others. It seems almost certain that his humility pre- 
vented him from receiving the priesthood, and that like St. 
Benedict and St. Francis he remained a deacon to the end 
of his life. He loved solitude, and after a term of preach- 
ing would retire into the desert to refresh his own soul with 
prayer and meditation. Yet he was always at the call of 
duty, and showed his readiness to benefit the bodies of the 
people as well as their souls. Once when the city of Edessa 
was severely visited by famine St. Ephrem boldly rebuked 
the callousness of the rich for allowing the poor to die un- 
succoured. '‘Your wealth will be your damnation,” he said 
to those who were heedless of their obligation in performing 
works of mercy. Frightened and ashamed, they pretended 
that there was no one to whom they could entrust the proper 
distribution of their alms. “Then give me that office,” said 
the Saint. As soon as he had received sufficient money, old 


34 


THE STORY OF EPHREM. 


as he was at the time he fitted up no less than three hundred 
beds in the public hospitals and began to tend the sick and 
the starving with his own hands. It was the last public un- 
dertaking of his long and useful life. It was as though the 
good God had kept him alive until the cessation of the 
famine, for when his services were no longer needed he re- 
turned to his cell and died after a few days’ sickness. 

At the time of his death, which took place about the year 
378, St. Ephrem had reached a very advanced age, but the 
date of his birth is not known. Ancient writers tell us that 
he was very tall, and that his countenance was singularly 
sweet and beautiful. In his old age he stooped considerably, 
and though his eyes were often swimming with tears his 
features were wonderfully calm and serene. His devotion 
to the adorable Sacrament was very great, and among the 
last words that he wrote we find the following: “Entering 
upon so long and dangerous a journey I have my Viaticum, 
even Thee, O Son of God. In my extreme spiritual hunger 
I will feed on Thee, the Repairer of Mankind. So it shall 
be that no fire will dare to approach me : for it will not be 
able to bear the sweet saving odour of Thy Body and 
Blood.” 

With his last breath he preached, and the entire popula- 
tion of the city crowded to the door of his cell. Forbid- 
ding every kind of funeral pomp, he again and again begged 
prayers for the repose of his soul : then turning to God in 
silent prayer, he gently passed away. 


GELASIUS THE MARTYR. 

To please a folly-loving age 
And fill the rabble with delight, 

Two clowns upon the Roman stage 
Essay to mock a Christian Rite. 

One steps into a brimming font, 

The other thrice doth lave his head. 

While sacred words the Church is wont 
To use in Baptism are said. 

Loud laughter through th’ arena peals 
As from the bath, ’mid wild applause. 

Across the stage Gelasius steals. 

Loud laughter — then a sudden pause. 

The actor’s jest and grin are gone : 

The clown assumes a solemn air: 

’Mid deathlike stillness cries “Anon, 

I saw a vision wondrous fair 1 

“A marvellous dazzling light I saw 
As yonder water washed my brow! 

Henceforth I keep the Christian law. 
Henceforth to Christ my life I vow.” 


36 


GELASIUS THE MARTYR. 


*‘He’s but in jest/’ the many cried ; 

Tis but the merry actor’s art!” 

But he, “Nay, now the Crucified 
Hath all the love of all my heart 1” 

No longer now prevails the hush. 

The clamour deepens to a roar; 

A hundred maddened monsters rush 
Across th’ arena’s crowded floor. 

Fiercely they drag him from the boards 
’Mid frenzied yell and threatening cry: 

Sharp murderous stones the road affords — 
“He is a Christian — let him die!” 

Thus he who late had played the clown. 
Through wondrous grace by Jesus given 

Receives the martyr’s glorious crown. 

And from earth’s stage steps into Heaven. 


IMPETUOUS PETER. 


I. 


When Dona Caterina de Villalobos lost her husband 
(whose father was the Governor of Toledo), her grief was 
augmented by fears for the future of her son. From his 
infancy Peter had shown himself to be a daring and a high- 
spirited boy, and one who with increasing years would 
stand in constant need of a father's guiding and restraining 
hand. 

Even at the age of seven he knew nothing of fear, and 
risked his life in trying to stop a runaway mule. Severely 
injured in the doing of this rash deed, he was for a long 
time confined to his bed, and his gentle mother took care to 
use well her opportunity of speaking to him of the things 
of eternity. 

Scarcely had he recovered, however, when, playing with 
his boy friend Dionisio Vasquez, Peter broke his leg. Again 
was the fiery little boy in the hands of doctors and nurses, 
and again did his good mother try her utmost to raise his 
mind to the thought of God. 

But so impetuous and fearless did Peter grow that, to 
Dona Caterina's great distress, she began to give up her 
darling hope that the boy would some day become a Re- 
ligious or an ecclesiastic, for he seemed to possess the tern- 


38 


IMPETUOUS PETER. 


perament of a soldier, and to exhibit every possible charac- 
teristic of a fighting man. 

However, in the year 1540 the great Cardinal Farnese 
came to Toledo on a special embassy from the Pope. The 
Empress Isabella had just died, and the Holy Father was 
sending his condolences to the Emperor Charles whose 
Court was then at Toledo. The Cardinal and his suite were 
lodged at the Nunciatura, which was exactly opposite Dona 
Caterina’s house, and as Peter knew nothing of shyness, and 
was a constant visitor at the Nunciatura, he soon made the 
acquaintance of his Eminence and that of various members 
of the embassy. Indeed he began to wait upon the Cardinal 
at dinner and to fill some of the offices of a page. 

It was impossible to ignore so handsome and intelligent a 
child, and when the Cardinal playfully asked him if he would 
like to go to Rome Peter promptly replied that he would be 
delighted to do so if his mother would give her permission. 
Grieved as Caterina was to lose him, she was so pleased with 
the idea of his being in the household of an ecclesiastic that 
she readily consented to the Cardinal’s proposal. 

Not without tears did Peter leave so loving a mother, 
though the prospect of living in Rome enchanted him. Very 
soon he began to distinguish himself, not merely in horse- 
manship and gymnastics, in fencing and dancing, but also 
in letters and learning. It became clear that Peter was no 
ordinary boy, and it is small wonder that in the Farnese 
household he became a general favourite. 

But there was one matter of first-rate importance in which 


IMPETUOUS PETER. 


39 


Peter did not seem to make any progress, and that was 
self-control. With his years, his temper seemed to grow 
more impetuous and fiery. In the presence of the Holy 
Father himself the Cardinahs page disgraced himself and 
his master. 

The Pope was giving a reception to various members of 
his family, and Peter was in attendance upon the Cardinal, 
standing near him with a lighted torch. There were other 
pages also in attendance upon their respective masters, and 
Peter thought that one of these boys was making faces at 
him. Though they were all standing within a few feet of 
the papal throne, Peter made a sudden rush upon the offend- 
ing lad and began to strike him on the head with his burn- 
ing torch. For a few moments the excitement was great, 
and Peter ran a great risk of being haled off to the papal 
prison. As it was he was made to smart for this unpar- 
donable breach of decorum, and had to submit to a well- 
deserved penance. After this he was more careful of his 
behaviour ; yet, on the feast of the Purification following, he 
again drew attention to himself by a daring breach of papal 
etiquette. 

The Holy Father was distributing the blessed candles to 
a select number of distinguished prelates and their at- 
tendants. After receiving the taper, each person kissed the 
cross on the Pope’s slipper. It is possible, of course, that 
Peter was for the moment distracted or confused: at any 
rate, instead of stooping to the slipper, he pressed his lips on 
the Pope’s hand. 


40 


IMPETUOUS PETER. 


“Who is that remarkable youngster?” inquired Paul III. 
when the ceremony was over ; and on being told that it was 
Peter Ribadeneira, Cardinal Farnese’s page, the Holy 
Father only smiled. 


II. 

The day came when Peter grew very restless. Life in 
Rome was beginning to pall upon him. His frequent scrapes 
and their punishments made him thoughtful. Favourite as 
he was, he saw that the Cardinal could not for ever tolerate 
in his dignified household a boy who was often spoken of 
as a mischievous imp. He began to realise that his impu- 
dence and audacity could not be borne for long. 

Intrepid as he usually was, on a certain night Peter found 
himself thoroughly frightened at the consequences of a 
recent escapade. Only that very morning he had been 
ordered to attend upon his master, who was going out of 
town for the day. Tired of dancing attendance upon his 
Eminence, instead of obeying this order Peter ran out into 
the streets and spent the entire day in rambling about Rome. 
Now the evening Angelus had sounded, and Peter was 
afraid to return to the Farnese palace. He was equally 
afraid to remain in the streets. To whom could he appeal ? 
who would give shelter to a boy who was practically a run- 
away page? 

In the moment of his need he remembered that he ought 
long ago to have paid a visit to a certain Father Ignatius, a 
countryman of his, and the Founder of that new Religious 


IMPETUOUS PETER. 


41 


Order called the Society of Jesus. Peter knew exactly 
where the Jesuit’s house was, and he hastened to the Torre 
del Melangolo. It was already dark when the boy rang the 
door-bell. Perhaps it was because of the lateness of the 
hour that St. Ignatius himself opened the door. 

Peter told his story and was admitted to the College for 
the night and treated with great kindness. St. Ignatius 
was sorry for the naughty, bold-eyed Spanish boy of four- 
teen, who was afraid to return to his master’s palace. 

“Do not be afraid, my child,” said the Saint. “I am well 
acquainted with Cardinal Farnese. To-morrow morning I 
myself will wait upon his Eminence, and beg forgiveness 
for you.” 

Peter ate his supper with much relish and comforted him- 
self with the thought that if anybody could successfully 
intercede for him with the Cardinal it would be this holy- 
looking Jesuit. So the boy went happily to bed, and upon a 
hard mattress in a narrow cell slept as soundly as he was 
wont to do in the palace. 

The Cardinal was much amused when Father Ignatius 
told him of the runaway, and said: “Yes, yes, tell him I 
forgive him. Let him come back at once.” 

But to the intense astonishment of the Saint, when he 
had given the boy his master’s message he was met with the 
objection : “But, Father, I don’t want to go back. I wish 
to remain with you.” 

With great kindness Ignatius told him that he must re- 
turn to the Cardinal. It seemed impossible that this im- 


42 


IMPETUOUS PETER. 


petuous boy who stood before him in his costly Court dress 
should ever be a Jesuit. At any rate, said the Saint, Peter 
must see his master and take counsel of his friends. The 
whole matter seemed much more like the passing fancy of 
a restless lad than a positive operation of grace. 

But Peter soon returned to Ignatius. ‘‘As sober as a 
Jesuit’s house in Rome,” was to become a proverb in Spain 
and elsewhere: sober as was the College in the Torre del 
Melangolo, the boy came back to it. He knew many good 
men and holy priests: none had ever impressed him so 
much as Ignatius had. Peter had taken advice, he said, and 
not only was he told to try his vocation, but his mother was 
overjoyed at the thought of his becoming a Jesuit. 

Even then Ignatius hesitated. The step seemed too 
sudden, too considerable; the contrast between the life of a 
palace and that of a Jesuit house appeared too sharp and 
startling. Besides, Peter had not reached his fifteenth year. 

On the other hand, the Saint soon perceived that his 
young countryman was a lad of unusual promise, in spite of 
his faults. Ignatius never hesitated to express his prefer- 
ence for a strong character over a weak one, however 
meek and pious the latter might be. He cared not how 
many faults a novice might have if only he showed a strong 
and fixed determination to overcome himself. 

So without permitting the lad to change his dress, and 
without formally admitting him to the noviceship, Ignatius 
allowed Peter to remain. 

Daily he teased his Superior to receive him as a novice — 


IMPETUOUS PETER. 


43 


only to be put off and told to be patient. He was too young, 
the Saint told him. ‘^When you are the height of my stick,” 
said Ignatius playfully, "‘I will admit you to the novitiate.” 
After this, Peter might have been seen frequently measur- 
ing his height with that of the Superior's staff. Indeed, it 
was alleged that though the boy could not add to his stature 
during those weeks of waiting, he took care that the stick 
itself should gradually become shorter. Probably Ignatius 
was well aware that his staff was being tampered with, but 
when one day Peter showed him that he had really reached 
its height the Saint did not scold him for his trickery. 

III. 

At length, in the September of 1540, Peter was received 
into the novitiate, but without being permitted to put on 
the habit of a novice. He had not yet made the Spiritual 
Exercises : indeed he had not made his first Communion. 

When the novelty of the new life began to wear off 
Peter's trials began. The memory of his old luxurious 
career came back to him and he grew restless. His natural 
impatience and impetuosity revived. Even the reproofs of 
the Saint whom he loved and venerated seemed at first to 
have little effect. Ignatius watched the struggle with in- 
terest and anxiety, begging God daily to give him the soul 
of this much-tried but promising child. 

One day after long and fervent prayer the Saint sent for 
Peter. Almost before Ignatius spoke the lad burst into 


44 


IMPETUOUS PETER. 


tears, and begged that he might be permitted to make those 
Spiritual Exercises he had long shrunk from entering upon. 
This was what his Superior wanted: he was no longer 
anxious. Peter made the Long Retreat, and at Christmas 
received his first Communion. 

But though the boy had gained a notable victory over 
himself his troubles were not over. The liveliness of his 
character began to show itself in many annoying ways. He 
was the very reverse of a model novice. He raced up and 
down the corridors at full speed, banged doors, clattered 
up and jumped down stairs, and when told to sweep filled 
the place with dust. He . did not rise when he was called, 
and was late for public duties. In order to get up more 
promptly he began to go to bed in his clothes — z, proceeding 
that was promptly forbidden. The Novice Master was in 
despair, and some of the Fathers said that Peter was like a 
monkey in the house and was altogether unmanageable. 

One day when Ignatius sent for Peter, the Master of 
Novices followed the lad to the Saint's cell. Brother Ri- 
badeneira was incorrigible, said the Master, and was dis- 
turbing the peace of the entire house. Some of the Fathers 
wished for his dismissal : Ignatius would not hear of this. 

“Don’t attack Father Ignatius,” said Paul III. on one 
occasion, “unless you want to be vanquished.” The Saint 
was well aware of all Peter’s delinquencies: he was also 
cognisant of the lad’s victories. There had been a marked 
improvement in the young Spaniard’s conduct, said the 
Superior, and he felt sure that sooner or later Peter would 


IMPETUOUS PETER. 


45 


surpass in solid virtue those who had fewer faults to fight 
against, and who were by nature less impulsive and effer- 
vescent. 

Poor Peter was indeed trying hard to subdue himself, 
and sometimes succeeding. By degrees he became less 
noisy, and, in order to check his propensity to run through 
the corridors and to jump downstairs, he went to the length 
of fettering his ankles with stout cord so that he could only 
take short steps. Sent to the kitchen to help the cook he 
took pains to be obedient, and was careful not to throw 
things about and so increase the number of breakages. 

Simple cookery began to interest him, and he even became 
capable of making an egg pasty — a special delicacy some- 
times served when the Fathers had a guest. One day he 
was so pleased with his own skill that he carried the pasty 
into the refectory and waited to be complimented by 
Ignatius. Unhappily, when the crust was cut the contents 
were found to be all burnt up. ‘‘How dare you show 
yourself after making such a dish as this?” asked the 
Superior in affected anger; “leave the refectory at once.” 
Peter was at that stage of his career when a little humiliation 
was good for him. 

“Brother,” asked Ignatius of him a little later, “do you 
know what it is to act as secretary ?” 

“It is to be faithful in keeping secrets. Father,” replied 
the lad. 

“If that is your notion,” said the Saint, “I will make you 
my secretary.” 


46 


IMPETUOUS PETER. 


Peter’s delight was immense, but he wrote a poor, un- 
formed hand, and his spelling left much to be desired. The 
Saint was very patient, though his patience was sorely tried, 
for in the matter of neat letter-writing he was fastidious. 
More little humiliations were in store for the young novice, 
and one day when Ignatius thought it well to give his 
secretary a wholesome reproof he threw the papers on the 
floor and exclaimed, “This silly lad will never do any good !” 
At this Peter wept profusely and, says an old writer, “beat 
his cheeks for grief.” 

Yet the Superior’s judicious mixture of kindness and 
severity, of encouragements and humiliations, had the hap- 
piest effect; and, though the boy was constantly getting 
into little scrapes, so determined was he to overcome him- 
self that when the two years of trial were ended even those 
who at one time had found his conduct most annoying 
were agreed that he might well be allowed to take the simple 
vows. His love for Ignatius became touchingly deep, and 
the life he afterwards wrote of that great Saint presents 
us with the most interesting biography of the Founder of 
the Society of Jesus that has ever been written. 

For his impetuous page and noisy novice lived to become 
a learned and a saintly man, and left behind him literary 
work of great value. Peter became an ornament to the 
Society, a distinguished preacher, and an eminent theo- 
logian. Well indeed did he repay the special and individual 
training St. Ignatius had bestowed upon him. 


A MIGHTY STRUGGLE. 


Among the truly great men of the past, Augustine of Hippo 
holds high place. The man who worships mere intellect 
cannot but venerate Augustine: the worldly man cannot 
but be interested in one who for many years was the prince 
of worldlings. True penitents regard him as their patron: 
sinners who are yet tied and bound with the chain of sin 
will, if they are wise, ask for his intercession. 

In the year 354 Augustine was born of a pagan father and 
a Christian mother. His parents were fairly well-to-do but 
by no means rich, and the father was not slow to see that 
his boy was possessed of quite exceptional abilities. He first 
went to school in his native town of Tagaste, not far from 
Hippo in the African province of Numidia : afterwards he 
studied grammar, poetry, and rhetoric at Madaura. The 
father's one ambition was that Augustine should be a great 
scholar : the mother’s daily prayer was that her son should 
become a great saint. 

At the age of sixteen the boy returned to his home, his 
father wishing him to finish his studies at Carthage. But to 
the grief of Monica and the lasting detriment of the lad, his 
father allowed him to spend a whole year in idleness. The 
reading of bad plays first corrupted his mind ; the frequent- 
ing of theatres and an excessive indulgence in field sports 


48 


A MIGHTY STRUGGLE. 


brought him into bad company and led him into every sort 
of sin. 

In his seventeenth year Augustine went to Carthage. It 
is a proof of his ardent nature, as well as of his amazing 
ability, that he threw himself into his studies with such appli- 
cation that he soon held the foremost place in the most 
famous schools of his country. Yet his vices seemed to 
grow with his learning. Instead of checking the immoral 
course upon which he had entered, his studies increased his 
opportunities and occasions of sinning. 

Meanwhile, his holy mother, Monica, prayed. She her- 
self had instructed her boy in the Catholic faith. He was 
not yet baptized, but he was a catechumen. She had taught 
him to pray. As was the custom at that particular time, his 
baptism had been put off, lest the grace of it should be 
abused. A year after he had been sent to Carthage, his father 
died after being received into the Church. The widowed 
Monica still prayed. 

Of a certain character in a distinguished work of fiction 
the author says: “His soul was like some great cathedral 
organ foully handled in the night by demons.” The com- 
parison may well be applied to Augustine. His intellect was 
colossal. Even non-Catholic authors claim him as one of 
the greatest writers who ever lived. Great as an orator and 
a rhetorician, he was still greater as a thinker. His reason- 
ing power was immense. No knowledge came amiss to him. 
He took up and absorbed almost every form of science. 

But if his intellect was strong and powerful, so were his 


A MIGHTY STRUGGLE. 


49 


passions. In that amazing book of his Confessions he has 
shown us something of the strife that went on within his soul 
for so many long years : we know that the battle was Titanic. 
Good and evil fought desperately for the lasting possession 
of that great mind. He was by nature generous and refined. 
Even in his vices he observed a certain external decency, and 
his manners were irreproachable. Intensely proud as at this 
time he was, he carefully refrained from the abusive language 
in which his companions indulged, and the practical joking 
so common among the Carthaginian students. To give pain 
to others afforded him no pleasure. None the less, he lived 
in open sin and in almost complete forgetfulness of God. But 
Monica still prayed. 

Restless and ill at ease in spite of his scholastic successes, 
he determined to devote himself to the study of philosophy. 
He began to have a certain contempt for honours and riches. 
Learning and wisdom should give him the satisfaction that 
sensual pleasure could not supply. Yet he made little or no 
change in his life. The habit of mortal sin was still upon 
him. Philosophy could show him how to reason concern- 
ing his passions : it could not help him to overcome them. 

As his knowledge increased, his pride also increased. To 
his many mortal sins he was to add that of heresy. Hitherto 
he had been a Christian in name, retaining a certain rever- 
ence for Christ and remaining mindful of the teaching of 
his saintly mother. But long-continued habits of sensuality 
had blinded his spiritual understanding and greatly weakened 
his will. To the intense grief of Monica, he joined the sect 


50 


A MIGHTY STRUGGLE. 


of the Manichees, remaining in it from his nineteenth to his 
twenty-eighth year. It was a monstrous and ridiculous 
heresy, that of Manicheism, and the fall of so great a genius 
into so foolish and deadly an error was the direct outcome 
of his pride and impurity. He fell as Solomon fell, as Luther 
fell, as Henry VIII. fell, as almost every heresiarch has 
fallen. 

A great sorrow fell upon Augustine. His dearest friend 
and one who had followed him into heresy fell sick and was 
received back into the Catholic Church. He rallied for 
a time and Augustine ridiculed his friend’s conversion. '‘If 
you wish to remain my friend,” said the sick man, “you 
must not make fun of my religion.” Soon afterwards he 
died very happily, and Augustine’s grief was terrible. He 
could do nothing but weep and his life became insupportable. 
Philosophy could give him no relief : knowledge had no cure 
for a loss of this kind. Sensual pleasures became a torment. 
He could no longer remain at Tagaste, where for some 
years he had conducted a school of grammar and rhetoric, 
and determined to remove to the great capital of Carthage. 
Here he gained distinction and applause in public disputa- 
tions, and secured the principal prizes for oratory and poetry. 
Time and new friends mitigated the grief he felt at the loss 
of his old companion. 

Soon, however, the disorderly conduct of the students dis- 
gusted him, and he determined to go to Rome. There he 
fell dangerously ill. Recovering, he began to lecture, the 
most famous scholars of the day frequenting his schools. 
Still restless, and annoyed at the knavery of some of his 


A MIGHTY STRUGGLE. 


51 


pupils who cheated him of his fees, he sought and obtained 
a royal appointment, that of Professor of Rhetoric at Milan. 

Though St. Monica did not know it, this was the moment 
for which she had prayed. This was the beginning of the 
end of Augustine’s apostasy and immorality. 

To be in the city of Milan without hearing of the holiness 
and eloquence of its Bishop was impossible. Out of mere 
curiosity, and to indulge his love of rhetoric, Augustine went 
to hear St. Ambrose preach. Almost insensibly, Monica’s 
son was impressed. He went to criticise, he remained to 
think. The manner of the holy Bishop’s sermons attracted 
the great Rhetorician: the matter of them sank into his 
heart. Here was a man of God who could reason : the most 
famous among the Manichees could only talk. Augustine 
was deeply moved, but he was not yet converted. Yet 
Monica still prayed. 

‘‘The enemy held my will,” Augustine afterwards wrote, 
“and of it he made a chain with which he had fettered me 
fast. From a perverse will was created wicked desire or 
lust, and the serving this lust produced a kind of necessity, 
with which as with certain links fastened one to another I 
was kept close shackled in this cruel slavery.” 

If the forming of bad friendships is always a sure occasion 
of sin, as it certainly is, the making friends with really good 
people is a special antidote to vice. Augustine began to put 
himself in the way of holy men, as formerly he had sought 
out the wicked. Not even then was his conversion imme- 
diately assured, but he had taken the first grand step in the 
right direction. And all this tim^ Monica was praying. 


52 


A MIGHTY STRUGGLE. 


From good friends to good books is an easy step. As a 
young boy, bad books had seduced Augustine ; corrupt plays 
had led him into wicked company. He now began to read 
the sublime Epistles of St. Paul and the Lives of the Saints. 
These writings powerfully affected him, but the struggle still 
went on. Hell was enraged at the idea of losing a soul so 
powerful for good or harm, a soul that had served it so 
faithfully for so many long years. ‘T was enraged at 
myself,” he says, “that I did not courageously and at once 
resolve on what my reason convinced me was the good and 
necessary thing to be done. ... I shook my chain . . . 
but could not be released from it.” 

But he continued to seek out holy men; he went on 
reading good books. He had already abandoned the Mani- 
chean heresy, and his mother had followed him to Milan; 
for tenderly and devotedly as she loved him, while he re- 
mained a heretic she would not live in his house. But she 
never ceased to pray for him. 

Who shall describe her happiness, or his, when the day 
of his deliverance came? It came in the year 386, when he 
was thirty-two years old. In great retirement, mother and 
son lived together, giving themselves to prayer and the 
practice of a holy life. On the following Easter Eve, Au- 
gustine was baptized by St. Ambrose, and in November of 
the same year St. Monica died. Augustine became a priest 
and subsequently a Bishop: he remains one of the greatest 
of God’s saints. He died on August 28th, 430, in his 
seventy-seventh year. 


A BELOVED PUPIL. 


It was the noon of night, and the holy hermit of Culross 
was saying Matins. Not far from his solitary cell the 
waves broke upon the shore with their monotonous and 
soothing rhythm, and made a fitting accompaniment to St. 
Servants midnight praises. Solitary indeed was the hermit, 
solitary his abode; yet above the low chant of his Night 
Hours, above the booming of the wind around his hut, above 
the breaking of the waves upon the beach, the holy man heard 
voices. 

Not for one moment did he pause in the recitation of his 
psalms. Scarcely for an instant ceased these strange, sweet 
voices of the night. To one whose life is given over to the 
direct praise of his Creator, and to commerce with a great 
multitude of unseen and heavenly witnesses, it is not surpris- 
ing if, like Adam, he hears the voice of God when sounds 
of earth are stilled, or if there should reach his ears the 
chanting of the spirits of just men made perfect. To-night 
St. Servan did not doubt that he had caught an echo of the 
Lauds of the Angels. 

But as soon as he had finished his nocturns the hermit 
left his cell and passed out into the pale grey light of early 
dawn. Strange sounds still lingered in the air, and as the 
hermit made his way to the seashore there came to his ear 


54 


A BELOVED PUPIL. 


the wailing of a little child. Pressing quickly forward he 
saw a sight that filled him with pity and compassion. 

A girl lay on the sea-washed stones, clasping to her heart 
a newly born child. To get help for babe and mother was 
the holy man’s first duty, and soon both were brought to a 
place of shelter. Terrible was the story the woman, little 
more than a girl, had to tell. Her name was Themin, and 
she was a princess, the daughter of Loth, King of the Piets. 
By her father’s orders she had been thrown from a steep 
rock at Mount Dunpeld. Poor sinner as she was, the good 
God had compassion on her. She was found lying unin- 
jured at the foot of the rock, and her father ordered her to 
be sent to the wild and desolate region of Culross. 

The holy man’s care for the child and his mother did not 
end with the providing of food and shelter and clothing. 
The girl was uninstructed and unbaptized. Bitterly she be- 
wailed her sin, and when St. Servan was satisfied that she 
had become a true penitent he baptized her and her little one, 
giving to her the name of Tanca, and to the boy that of 
Kentigern, or Kentiern, which means ‘‘chief lord.” 

Though Servan has been spoken of as a hermit, it is cer- 
tain that he became an Abbot, and that, as so frequently 
happened, his cell developed into a monastery. He was 
joined by other monks, and the Abbey of Culross became a 
place well-known for piety and learning. 

It is small wonder that little Kentigern should cling to the 
holy man who had not only saved his earthly life, but had 
been the means of his acquiring a right to the life eternal. 


A BELOVED PUPIL. 


55 


Great was the love between the old man and the little child, 
and right gladly did the mother leave her son within the 
sacred shelter of Culross. And the boy grew and became 
very dear to God. Gentle and affectionate, humble and 
obedient, was Mungho — the “dearly loved one,” as the Ab- 
bot always called him — and gave promise of becoming both 
learned and saintly. 

Wild indeed was the Scotland of the sixth century, wild 
and uncouth were its inhabitants; but the monks laboured 
hard to civilise the boys who were sent to them, and to bring 
them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord. We 
may easily imagine what a hard time the gentle little Kenti- 
gern would have among a herd of half-savage lowland lad- 
dies. The well-known legends of the Saint that have come 
down to us doubtless had their origin in the lawless bullying 
of his schoolmates. 

In old times the striking of a light was often a lengthy 
and a difficult task, and in consequence of this fires were sel- 
dom allowed to die out. One of the duties of the lads at the 
abbey was that each in turn should rise in the night to throw 
more wood on the kitchen hearth, and to replenish the oil in 
the church lamps. On a night when it was Kentigern's turn 
to fulfil this duty, some of the lads rose before him and care- 
fully extinguished the fire. But the Beloved one did not 
suffer. Miraculously, or otherwise, he obtained a light — ^to 
the confusion of the boys who wanted to get him punished. 

The well-known legend of the robin is more startling still. 
It was the Abbot’s pet bird, and lived in his cell. One day 


56 


A BELOVED PUPIL, 


the young barbarians wrung the little redbreast^s neck and 
told the Abbot that his Mungho had done the deed. Greatly 
distressed, Kentigern took into his hands the body of the 
mangled bird, and raising his tearful, prayerful eyes to 
heaven, implored the Almighty to give back life to the Ab- 
bot’s pet. Nothing is too small, nothing too great, for the 
good God to do when a saint prays as only a saint can pray, 
and Kentigern did not ask in vain. No wonder these coarse 
laddies became afraid to play tricks upon their saintly school- 
mate. 

While one author tells us that Kentigern ran away because 
he was unable to endure longer the envy of his fellow pupils, 
another assures us that he was sent to Glasgow by the Ab- 
bot St. Servan, in order to work for God. However this 
may be, we know that the day of his departure was the sad- 
dest of his life, and of that of his beloved master and 
spiritual father. One account says that the Abbot ran after 
him only to find that the boy had already crossed the river. 

‘'Alas! my dearest son,” cried St. Servan; “the light of 
my eyes, and the staff of my age, wherefore hast thou de- 
serted me? Remember that I took thee from thy mother’s 
womb, nursed thee, and taught thee to this day. Do nof 
desert my white hairs.” 

“My father,” called out Kentigern through his tears, “it 
is the will of the Most High that I should go.” 

“Come back, come back, my dearest!” cried the Abbot. 
“From being a father, I will be to thee a son: instead of 
being a master, I will become your disciple.” 


A BELOVED PUPIL. 


57 


father, it cannot be,” answered the boy, sobbing very 
bitterly. ‘1 must go where the Lord God calls me.” 

The love of a saint is as deep as it is true: but there is 
nothing of self in it. That which so many unhappy men 
and women call love of one another is often nothing but un- 
blushing and undisguised selfishness. True affection makes 
no account of self. The love that existed between these two 
holy souls was as deep as the ocean: each of them wished 
what was best for the other, not for what was most pleasing 
to himself. Bitter and terrible as the parting was, each at 
length understood that God willed it. 

So the Abbot raised his hands and sent his blessing across 
the river. Slowly and sorrowfully they parted, never again 
in this life to meet one another face to face. 

The subsequent adventures of St. Kentigern were many 
and remarkable. God had called him to be an apostle, and 
though like so many holy men and boys he began his aposto- 
late in a cave, people sought him out and listened to his 
teaching. He soon converted many to God, and even when 
he brought Kings into the fold of the Church, and found 
himself consecrated Bishop of Glasgow, he continued to live 
in a rocky cell with a stone for his pillow. From this primi- 
tive palace he went forth to preach, a wooden, unadorned 
pastoral staff in one hand, an office book in the other, on 
foot through the country, passing from the Clyde to the 
Firth of Forth, living on bread and cheese and milk. 

Driven from his native country by a rebellion, St. Kenti- 
gern took refuge in Wales with the great St. David, remain- 


58 


A BELOVED PUPIL. 


ing with him until the building of the famous monastery 
then called Llan-Elwy, and afterwards St. Asaph. Disciples 
and scholars flocked to this abbey in great numbers, and 
Kentigern remained here until after the death of St. David 
in 544, and until Roderick, the King of the North Britons, 
begged the Bishop of Glasgow to return to his see. So 
Kentigern left his abbey in the care of St. Asaph, and re- 
turned to the land of his birth, bringing with him a devoted 
band of British monks. 

Besides beginning the building of a cathedral at Glasgow, 
Kentigern laboured to bring back to the faith the Piets of 
Galloway, and founded numerous missions and religious 
houses. His relations with the famous and holy Columba, 
Abbot of Iona, were of the most interesting kind, and there 
has come down to us a beautiful account of the meeting of 
these two Saints and their followers at Glasgow. 

St. Columba arrived with a great company of monks, 
and as they entered Glasgow the Abbot divided them into 
three big choirs. In the same way St. Kentigern met him 
with three great bodies of boys and monks and aged 
Fathers. First came the children of the choir, then the 
brethren who had reached manhood, and last of all the 
snowy-haired elders, among whom Kentigern took his 
place. 

'They shall sing in the ways of the Lord that great is the 
glory of the Lord : the path of the just is made, and the way 
of the saints is prepared’' — chanted the choirs of Glasgow. 
Immediately they were answered by the monks of Iona: 


A BELOVED PUPIL. 


59 


*^The saints shall go from strength to strength, and unto the 
God of Gods appeareth every one of them in Sion/’ 

Then the Apostle of the Piets affectionately embraced the 
Apostle of the Scots, and the two Saints spent several days 
together in sacred conference. 

St. Kentigern died in the year 6oi at the age of eighty- 
five. In life and after death he was famed for miracles. 
His feast is kept on January 13th. 

As we write these lines, excavations are being made upon the site 
of the ancient Abbey of Culross. A number of interesting objects have 
already been unearthed. One of the discoveries is a tomb which in 
the opinion of experts dates from the fourth century of the Christian 
era. It is probably the headstone of a chieftain and is in the form of 
a crucifix. A sword of very primitive design is incised upon it, and 
(says the Times of September 13, 1905) the original Culdee script and 
emblems which were engraved upon it have superimposed upon them 
the later symbols of the Roman Catholic Church. Other slabs of a 
similar nature are being unearthed. 

The Legend of the Robin has been put into charming 
verse by Miss May Probyn : 

God keep thee, little Kentigern, 

Sitting in the school! 

Quickly the master will return — 

Thou hast not broken the rule. 

From thy task thou hast not stirred. 

But the rest have slain the master’s bird — 

The little bird with the breast of red 
That perched on the master’s shoulder. 

And picked from his hand the crumbs of bread. 

Each morning waxing bolder — 


6o 


A BELOVED PUPIL. 


But the thoughtless lads as he flew by 
Have chased and caught him boisterously. 

They have snatched him from each other’s hold; 

They have pulled off his head. 

Rent is the tuneful throat of gold — 

In twain he falleth dead. 

Drops of red on the white flags lie, 

And the step of the master draweth nigh. 

God keep thee, little Kentigern, 

Standing out on the floor! 

The coward lads, each in his turn. 

Have accused thee o’er and o’er. 

For sake of a little bird’s red blood 
Thou art to taste the master’s rod. 

The child hath asked that he may take 
In his hand the dead thing small. 

He joineth the head to the little neck — 
White-lipped the lads grow all. 

Lo, the bird hath preened its pretty wing. 
Glanced up, glanced down, and begun to sing. 


GOOD KING WENCESLAUS. 


One of the greatest misfortunes that can happen to any 
child is to have a depraved and unbelieving mother. Young 
Wenceslaus, the son of the Ruler of Bohemia, and his 
brother Boleslas, had for mother a cruel and impious pagan. 
Happily for the boys, their father was a true Christian, 
the son of the first Catholic Duke of Bohemia, whose wife 
is known in history as the Blessed Ludmilla. After the 
death of her husband this holy princess lived at Prague, and, 
to her great joy, her grandson Wenceslaus was placed by his 
father in her wise and loving care. Her chaplain became the 
boy^s tutor, and under the guidance of this singularly holy 
and prudent man Wenceslaus soon began to give signs of 
solid* piety and lasting goodness. After some years he was 
sent to college at Budweis, a place more than sixty miles 
from Prague, and there he made progress both in learning 
and in virtue, being, it is said, notably careful in shunning 
the things that make for sin. 

When his father died, Wenceslaus was still young, and 
his pagan mother determined to govern Bohemia in his 
stead. Immediately she began to make war upon the Cath- 
olic religion. She ordered every church to be closed, stopped 
the exercise of all Christian rites, and, imitating the conduct 
of Julian the Apostate (whose impiety is at this time being 


62 


GOOD KING WENCESLAUS. 


emulated by the French Government), forbade priests to 
give any instruction to the young. Not content with this, 
she repealed all the laws made by her husband and his father 
in favour of the Christians, and in all the towns of Bohemia 
replaced the Catholic magistrates by her own followers. 

Promising him all the help in her power, the grandmother 
of Wenceslaus, Blessed Ludmilla, implored the boy to check 
these outrages by taking his lawful place as the ruler of 
Bohemia. Greatly to the delight of the people he obeyed, 
and his wretched mother was deposed. His generosity is 
shown by the fact that in order to avoid disputes he divided 
the country between himself and his younger brother. 

Sad to say, this younger brother, Boleslas, was perverted 
by his wicked mother, who was enraged at her deposition 
and determined to be revenged upon both Wenceslaus and 
his grandmother. 

Meanwhile, Wenceslaus chose for his advisers the most 
upright and prudent ministers in his dominions, and did all 
in his power to establish and preserve peace. Like so many 
other saintly princes, he gives the lie to those enemies of 
Jesus Christ who try to maintain that a pious king cannot 
be a good ruler. Religion is for all men, whether their 
character be strong or weak, and it is difficult to say if the 
masterly and self-reliant, or the timid and incapable have 
more need of Divine help. In Wenceslaus there was no sus- 
picion of weakness. His piety was profound. He gave 
his days to business, and his nights to prayer. His devotion 
to the Adorable Sacrament was so remarkable that with his 


GOOD KING WENCESLAUS. 


63 


own hands he sowed the corn for the altar-bread, while he 
gathered the grapes and made the wine used in the Holy 
Sacrifice.^ He usually left his bed at midnight, going to the 
churches to pray even when snow lay on the ground ; and if 
the church doors were shut he was content to kneel in the 
porch. His daily life was filled with works of mercy, both 
corporal and spiritual. Wherever there was want or trouble 
or distress, there the King appeared. Orphans and widows, 
the sick, the dying, prisoners in their cells — all were visited 
and relieved by him. “He ruled his kingdom by his virtues, 
rather than by force,” says the Breviary, and it was the 
greatest possible grief to him when he was compelled to pass 
sentence of death upon the guilty. In the dead of night he 
would go to the prisons and console those who were shut up, 
giving them food and money as well as advice and comfort- 
ing words. It is said that walking barefoot through snow 
and ice his bleeding footprints gave out heat. In some parts 
of England this legend, prettily versified by the late Dr. 
Neale, is well known as a Christmas carol : 

Good King Wenceslaus looked out on the Feast of Stephen, 
When the snow lay round about, deep and crisp and even: 

Brightly shone the moon that night, though the frost was cruel, 
When a poor man came in sight gath’ring winter fuel. 

‘The following account of the preparation of the bread and wine for 
the altar at Cluny is an instance of the care taken in this matter in 
the Ages of Faith : “There were numberless beautiful rites of benedic- 
tion observed, as that of the ripe grapes, which were blessed on the 
altar during Mass, on August 6th, and afterward distributed in the re- 
fectory; of new beans, and of the freshly-pressed juice of the grape. 
The ceremonies observed in making the altar-breads were also most 
worthy of note. The grains of wheat were chosen one by one, were 


64 


GOOD KING WENCESLAUS. 


The King asks his page who the poor man is and where he 
lives; finding that his dwelling is ‘'a good league hence un- 
derneath the mountain/’ Wenceslaus exclaims 

“Bring me flesh and bring me wine, bring me pine-logs hither; 
Thou and I will see him dine when we bear them thither:” 

Page and monarch forth they went, forth they went together, 
Through the rude wind’s wild lament and the bitter weather. 

But in the darkness and the cold the boy’s heart fails him : 
whereupon the good King says 

“Mark my footsteps, my good page, tread thou in them boldly : 
Thou shalt find the winter’s rage freeze thy blood less coldly.” 

Following in his master’s steps, the boy finds that 

Heat was in the very sod which the Saint had printed. 

The King’s revengeful mother was determined that her 
son should have no peace. The grandmother of Wenceslaus 
found that her daughter-in-law was plotting to take her life. 
In no way disturbed, the holy old woman distributed her 
goods among her servants and the poor, made her confession 
and prepared herself for death. Hired assassins found her 
prostrate in prayer before the altar of her chapel and 
strangled her with her own veil. 

carefully washed and put aside in a sack, which was carried by one 
known to be pure in life and conversation to the mill. Then they were 
ground and sifted, he who performed this duty being clothed in alb 
and amice. Two priests and deacons clothed in like manner prepared 
the breads, and a lay-brother, having gloves on his hands, held the 
irons in which they were baked. The very wood of the fire was chosen 
of the best and driest. And whilst these processes were being gone 
through the brethren engaged ceased not to sing psalms, or sometimes 
recited our Lady’s Office.” 


GOOD KING WENCESLAUS. 


65 


Not satisfied with this abominable crime, the King’s 
mother invited Radislas, Prince of Gurima, to invade her 
son’s territory. Anxious to maintain the peace of his 
country, Wenceslaus sent a message to Radislas asking 
what offence he had given him and suggesting terms of 
reconciliation. Radislas treated the message with contempt 
and answered that the entire surrender of Bohemia was his 
only condition of peace. 

Physical courage is a great gift: moral courage is a far 
greater one. Wenceslaus had both. He immediately 
marched against the enemy of his country. When the two 
armies met, the Saint asked for speech with Radislas — who 
was soon to be convinced that if sometimes a bad man may 
be a hero — of a sort, a man of God is doubly and trebly a 
hero. Greatly to his surprise, Radislas found himself chal- 
lenged to single combat. ^‘Why should we shed the blood 
of our followers?” Wenceslaus asked: 'det the battle be be- 
tween us, the leaders.” Radislas could not refuse to accept 
such a challenge — a very different matter, be it remembered, 
to a duel. Still despising his pious antagonist, the invader 
assured himself of an easy victory. 

Armed with only a short sword, the brave Wenceslaus 
met his country’s foe. The fight was brief enough. Fail- 
ing to fling his javelin, to the astonishment of his men, 
Radislas threw down his weapons and fell upon his knees. 
He had not struck a single blow. Without a struggle, the 
invading King yielded to the saintly and courageous 
Wenceslaus. 


66 


GOOD KING WENCESLAUS. 


The good King’s troubles did not cease with his victory 
over Radislas. Wenceslaus had now to turn his attention 
to his own country. Some of his nobles were oppressors of 
the poor, and this with other disorders the King checked 
with necessary severity. His action did not make him 
popular with these unworthy men, and when the unnatural 
mother of Wenceslaus began to plot against her son’s life 
they readily came to her aid and that of the younger son, 
the pagan Boleslas. 

A child had been born to Boleslas, and a pressing invita- 
tion was sent to Wenceslaus to be present at the celebration 
of so important an event. Suspecting nothing, Wenceslaus 
accepted. It was September 28th in the year 938. The 
entertainment was on a magnificent scale, but, true to 
his usual habits, when midnight came Wenceslaus went to 
the church. Urged by his mother, Boleslas and some at- 
tendants followed him. The holy King received many 
wounds from the men-at-arms, but it was his own brother 
who, in the end, ran him through the body with a lance. 
The enemies of God and religion triumphed, as they often 
do, for a time. 

To avenge the murder of Wenceslaus, the Emperor Otho 
I. subjugated Bohemia and forced Boleslas to submit. Soon 
after the assassination of her son, his mother lost her life : 
one account seems to suggest that she perished in an earth- 
quake. Terrified by his mother’s fate and the many miracles 
worked at his brother’s tomb, Boleslas caused the Saint’s 
body to be translated to the Church of St. Vitus at Prague, 


GOOD KING WENCESLAUS. 


67 


the church built by Wenceslaus himself for the reception of 
the body of his saintly grandmother. 

It is pleasant to record that the son and successor of 
Boleslas became not only one of the greatest rulers of the 
period, but a faithful follower in the footsteps of his uncle, 
St. Wenceslaus. 


THE SMILING SAINT. 


One Saint makes many. Almost without number were 
the souls that Saint Columban, the great Irish missionary 
of the seventh century, led to God; numerous also were the 
disciples who followed him and who were helped by him to 
reach a state of perfection. Among the latter few are more 
interesting and engaging than Deicolus. 

Very young must the boy have been when he left Ireland 
to settle with Columban in East Anglia ; and when the great 
founder of religious houses passed from England into 
France and began to build the famous abbey of Luxeuil, 
Deicolus could not have been very old. Certainly the lads 
of that period were not wanting in grit. Hard living, hard 
labour, the perils and dangers of travel, immense applica- 
tion to study, the performance of the humblest offices — these 
things were the daily bread of the young who gave them- 
selves to the service of Christ, the Source of Courage. 

Such a willing, happy service too! Deicolus himself 
seems to have been the very soul of cheerfulness, one of the 
many beautiful qualities that endeared him to his Abbot. 
He might well have earned for himself the nickname of The 
Sniiler, for no matter what work he happened to be engaged 
in his face was always bright and sunny. St. Ignatius once 
asked a young Brother why he was always laughing — bid- 


THE SMILING SAINT. 


69 


ding him in the same breath to persevere in that holy cheer- 
fulness which makes for perseverance in all good works. 
The same question was put to the young Deicolus by St. 
Columban ; and as the incident has been prettily versified by 
an anonymous poet, we cannot do better than quote the 
lines in full : 

Drawing the water, hewing the wood, 

Deicolus the happy, Deicolus the good; 

Never without a smile on his face, 

Full of a sweet peculiar grace. 

Serving at table, singing in quire, 

Fetching the logs to the great hall fire ; 

Teaching the boys their sacred song. 

Smiling, smiling the whole day long. 

His saintly Father, with calm grey eyes, 

Looked on the youth with glad surprise: 

“O Deicolus happy, Deicolus good! 

Tending the sick, or watching the gate, 

Labouring early and resting late, 

Teaching grammar or teaching song — 

Why art thou smiling the whole day long?” 

Deicolus blushed, and “I smile,” said he, 

“Because no one can take my God from me.” 


A great sorrow came both to Columban and Deicolus 
when the fierce Queen Brunchant, and her unworthy son the 
King of Burgundy, expelled the Abbot from the monastery 
of Luxeuil. But like the man of courage that he was, 
Columban immediately set off to preach the gospel and to 
found more monasteries elsewhere. Among his followers 
was Deicolus. Bravely they marched away setting their 
faces toward another country, and leaving behind them an 
abbey that soon became one of the glories of France. 


70 


THE SMILING SAINT. 


Now from what follows it is clear that although Deicolus 
was so merry and so active he was not very robust. Or it 
may be that even at this period he was still nothing more 
than a growing boy ; for after they had gone some distance 
on their weary journey, the lad’s bodily strength was ex- 
hausted, and he was compelled to own that he was unable 
to walk any further. To part from his beloved Abbot was 
indeed a hard thing, but it was inevitable. Greatly compas- 
sionating his disciple, St. Columban gave him the permission 
he sought, to lead the life of a solitary. They were still in 
the Kingdom of Burgundy, and no doubt St. Columban 
knew that the comparative fertility of the neighbourhood 
would furnish the young hermit with the necessaries of life; 
nevertheless, the parting was a very painful one. To say 
“Farewell” was a bitter sorrow to both Abbot and monk. 
Shedding many tears Columban said: “God Almighty — 
out of love to Whom thou didst leave thy native land, and 
hast ever been to me a most obedient child — ^bring us to- 
gether in the Majesty of His glory.” 

Then Deicolus threw himself into the Abbot’s arms, weep- 
ing loudly and long. “The Lord give thee blessing out 
of Sion,” said the Saint, gently disengaging himself from 
the sobbing lad, “and may He make thee to see Jerusalem 
in prosperity all thy life long.” 

For the first time in his life Deicolus found himself in 
actual solitude. Throwing himself on his knees he prayed 
fervently to his Father in Heaven: then he began to pene- 
trate into the depths of the forest. He would build for 


THE SMILING SAINT. 


71 


himself a little hut far away from the homes of men, and 
there would he live on the fruits of the earth. For years he 
had been accustomed to hard fare, and in the forest he would 
sometimes find berries and nuts. 

Commending himself to God as he went along, he came 
across a swineherd whose pigs were feeding upon the acorns. 
The man was astonished to see a stranger in such an out- 
of-the-way place; Deicolus told him that he was a monk, 
and that he wanted to build a hermitage in some solitary 
spot where there was a stream of water. The swineherd 
said there was only one such place, and that was close to a 
little lake called Luthra. ^^Could you not show me this 
place?” asked Deicolus. ^T daren’t leave my pigs to take 
care of themselves,” the man answered. ‘^Don’t be afraid of 
that,” Deicolus urged, planting his own staff in the ground. 
“If you will go with me this stick of mine shall keep them 
together until you return.” 

We need never be astonished at the number of miracles 
that were worked in those primitive times. The simple, fer- 
vent faith of the people made them possible, as well as the 
sanctity of the many great servants of God who performed 
them. Fully believing the word of the young monk the 
swineherd brought him to Luthra, returning to find his pigs 
quietly feeding in the neighbourhood of the youth’s staff. 

To the great joy of Deicolus he found not only a lake with 
springs of sweet water but a little chapel dedicated to a saint 
who was greatly loved at that period, St. Martin of Tours. 
The young hermit’s cheerfulness had indeed been much tried 


72 


THE SMILING SAINT. 


by the parting with his beloved Father Columban ; but God 
had been good to him in leading him to so pleasant a retreat 
and to the neighbourhood of the forest chapel, and his heart 
was full of thankfulness. 

But Deicolus soon had reason to remember that the chapel 
was private property. It belonged to a gentleman named 
Weifhardt, and was served by a priest who was anything 
but an amiable man. One day when the monk went to make 
his usual prayer, he found that the door and the windows 
had been filled with thorns and brambles. Disregarding 
these impediments, Deicolus entered the chapel. When the 
priest heard of it he told Weifhardt, who flew into a rage 
and ordered his servants to find the hermit and give him a 
severe flogging. Unfortunately for their master, the men 
obeyed him literally, and almost immediately afterwards he 
was seized with a complaint that threatened to be fatal. His 
good wife Berthilda, not doubting but the disease had been 
sent as a punishment for her husband’s cruel conduct to the 
hermit, sent her servants to implore Deicolus to visit the 
castle. With all haste the holy man obeyed the summons, 
and, praying fervently to God, did not leave Weifhardt until 
he was cured. 

Great good came out of the evil this man had done, for, 
as a thankoffering to God and Deicolus, he bestowed upon 
the hermit not only the little estate of Luthra, but the chapel 
itself and the adjoining wood. Full of gratitude to God, 
Deicolus sang, ‘This is my rest for ever and ever ; here will 
I dwell, for I have chosen it.” 


THE SMILING SAINT. 


73 


Soon after this it chanced that the King, Clothaire 11. , 
came to the forest to hunt. Quietly reading in his cell Dei- 
colus was startled by the sudden appearance of a wild boar 
hard pressed by dogs. Rushing into the hermit’s little ora- 
tory the beast fell panting before the altar, while the monk 
standing at his door confronted the hunters and the dogs. 
The boar had taken sanctuary, said Deicolus, and its life 
must be spared. 

Marvelling at the hermit’s courage, the King asked him 
many questions and soon found that he was dealing with 
one of God’s Saints and a disciple of Columban. It is the 
duty and the privilege of the rich to offer gifts, and before 
the King rode away he had bestowed upon Deicolus the 
game in the forest, the fish in the streams, and the grapes in 
the neighbouring vineyards. Then the hermit called to 
mind that Columban had once told him that, before his 
death, he should rule over three kingdoms. Here was the 
prophecy’s fulfilment. 

So now Deicolus had the means to build and to support a 
community. Novices flocked to him in numbers, and his 
house soon became an important abbey. Journeying to 
Rome he returned with a special charter from the reigning 
Pontiff and many privileges. With great gentleness and 
sweetness, and an abiding cheerfulness which endeared him 
to his subjects, he ruled his community for many happy 
years. 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 


I. 


THE GAMES AT THE CROSS-ROADS. 

Peadhar the Pict Strode down to the games at the cross- 
roads, bearing his heavy spear with its broad Roman blade 
across his left shoulder and carrying upon his right little 
Moder, his master’s son. 

Peadhar was fifteen; the swiftest runner, the highest 
jumper, the subtlest wrestler of all boys on Tweedside, 
saving only one — ^his friend, whom the child on his shoulder 
called ^'Cuthbert of the Crook.” This Cuthbert was the 
champion of all shepherd sports in that year of King Os- 
wald’s reign, when the seventh century of redemption was 
young. 

Yet his years were barely eleven. Peadhar was proud of 
him, instead of feeling envy, and so were the others, who 
argued it out with a rough theology of their own. ‘‘A boy 
like our Cuthbert,” they said, ‘‘who will take a sleepy shep- 
herd’s watch for him, and spend that, and his own, and 
maybe half the next, in praying, praying all the time, and 
keep well and merry through it all — why, such a one can 
do anything ! If the Irish Peadhar throws us, and English 
Cuthbert throws him, why grumble?” 

It was God’s doing, they concluded, and rested unenvious. 

For the rest — his prowess at the books — it seemed quite 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 


75 


natural that Cuthbert should read Latin middling well, and 
talk rough Roman with older monks at Mailros, as easily, 
to all appearance, as burring Northumbrian. 

The years of little Moder were three. As he sat upon 
Peadhar^s shoulder, he crooned in a jargon made of gut- 
tural English and the soldier Latin that was a tradition in 
his father's house. The first of the Moders was one Mod- 
eratus who had risen to be centurion of his legion after 
years of service against the Piets. When the last of the 
army was recalled, he had claimed his privilege as emeritus, 
and remained. He spent his gold right wisely on the pur- 
chase of flocks and herds, had added plough-tilth and bees, 
according to the rules of Virgil, had flourished accordingly, 
for all the troublous times, and had ended by bowing his 
Roman neck to the gentle yoke of the Crucified. 

All this was generations back. But the strain of the old 
conquerors died hard. Little Moder looked like a baby 
Caesar, on one of the thin gold coins yet current in the 
land, and his speech — well, it took the clever Cuthbert to 
understand him fully. 

‘‘Cuthhertus mens, Ctuthbertus mens!” he cooed on Pead- 
har's shoulder. Letter C. or Ct. all was one to him, and 
then he mixed his languages. 

^^Uhi est myn Cuthberht? Ubi est myn Ctuthberht?” he 
chanted, drumming an accompaniment upon Peadhar’s 
shapely poll. 

Like so many questions we hear, this was asked for the 
sake of talk, and Peadhar loved prayer in the open, like 


76 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 


most of his almost Oriental race. He was praying then, 
and the query fell on ears that were sensibly deaf. Surely 
Moder should know it was just to see Cuthbert he was be- 
ing carried to the games ! 

So Moder pummelled on Peadhar’s poll as hard as the 
soft fists could. At length they found a bruise beneath the 
jetblack curls, that contrasted so oddly with the grey-blue 
eyes. Plump! came one of them upon it, and Peadhar 
roared — roared like a bull-calf, and set little Moder by the 
roadside while he ruefully rubbed his scalp, and then he 
roared anew. Peadhar was of the wonderful race of Erin 
which squeals for a pin-prick in peace, and faces the battle- 
field with silent bravery. 

“God save thee, Peadhar!” came a ringing voice from 
far beyond the dyke. “Hold them fast, boy ! I am coming ! 
It is I, Cuthbert!” 

Whereat Peadhar roared yet again, this time with 
laughter. 

“God save thee kindly, Cuthbert,” he cried into mid-air, 
for the dykes were lofty. “Hurry not and worry not. It is 
only our Moder who has killed me again — killed me en- 
tirely.” 

Little Moder now laughed. He had been sobbing, for 
he was a feeling little chap, and saying “Me poenitat Petre.” 
But now he stood out in the road and looked up towards 
Peadhar’s “rescuer.” 

It was a fine figure of a boy that was outlined against 
the sky thirty feet from where they stood. Cuthbert's cheeks 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 


77 


were ruddy as he rose with running, but excitement had left 
his neck white beneath its sunburn. His teeth glinted like 
pearls through firm full lips, well apart in deep breathing 
and laughter. The blue eyes danced with fun. Standing 
high as he did, the sun caught him full, and his yellow 
hair flamed like the halo of a saint. He was leaning on 
his crook, and Peadhar was reminded of a picture at Mailros, 
which showed a young bishop with a golden crozier. But 
episcopal vestments were sorely to seek. Cuthbert’s garb 
was a jerkin of frieze, with a saflfron-hued kilt. Beneath 
were interlacing straps, which gave protection to the legs, 
while holding the sandals in position. 

“Ciithherte” cried Moder, ”Domimis conservet te, et 
beatum faciat te in terra” 

“Ah !” called Cuthbert from the height, “it is Moderatus 
the Murderer! Indeed, then, little Moder, may Our Lord 
preserve thee, too, and make thee blessed upon the earth.’’ 

He spoke gaily, but there was a sweet gravity as he echoed 
the words of benediction. Then he sprang down the steep 
declivity with the grace and intrepidity of life upon moor 
and mountain. Barely once did he use the shaft of his crook 
as mountaineers handle their staves. 

“My Moderatus,” he said, as the child hugged his knees 
and tugged at his crook, “it is written, Non Occides” 

“The fifth commandment,” said Moder sagely, “I am a 
good boy. I sing Vespers. Also I keep the command- 
ments.” 

“Keep these,” quoted Cuthbert, between jest and earnest. 


78 CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 

^‘keep these and thou shalt live. A-a-ah! give me that 
spear.” 

Small Moder had picked it up, and its dreadful point and 
edges were threatening the shins of Cuthbert’s companion 
and himself. 

Moder tendered it with a reverential gesture he had ob- 
served when his father taught spear-drill to his servants. 
Cuthbert smiled at his ceremony, held the weapon out of 
harm’s way and restored it to Peadhar. Then the two lads 
walked on to where the paved Roman highway traversed 
the Northumbrian track. Little Moder came trotting be- 
hind, now clutching at Cuthbert’s kilt, now playing by what 
later became hedgerows — in those days but salvages of un- 
dulating prairies. 

'Teadhar,” said Cuthbert, “your killing was a good joke; 
now let me tell you another. When Moder held me the 
spear reversed, I laughed to think of the day when you did 
me homage as an Irish king — the very first day we met!” 

“They had told me so, Cuthbert,” said Peadhar, “they 
had told me your name was Columb, the same as that of 
Columba. It was said your parents had been royal, and 
taken captive in a foray, as was my grandsire years ago.” 

“Cuthbert was not christened Columba,” chirruped Moder 
from the rear. “He was baptized Cuthbertus — Tamous for 
skill,’ Brother Pius says.” 

“And what says Brother Gregorius?” said Peadhar, look- 
ing archly at Cuthbert. His companion’s face was burning 
into a crimson of shyness. 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 


79 


''Ctu — gu — gu'' gurgled Moder. 

Cuthbert turned and snapped his fingers over Moder’s 
head, with its tonsure-patch that showed his mother’s dream 
of a vocation. 

‘‘Must the little Roman goose ever cackle!” he said. 
''Run on to the Capital, Moderatus — to the cross-roads 
yonder. You will find brother-goslings to quack with!” 

Away trotted Moder obediently, but not without shouting, 
"Guthbertus, Guthbertus !” his small legs twinkling over the 
ground as Cuthbert affected to chase him. "Guthbertus” 
meant "worthy of God” in the Latinised Saxon of Tweed- 
side. 

"Peadhar,” said Cuthbert, "I would truly be proud to be 
born of the race that gave us Columb-kill. But I am no 
Irishman. I am an Angle, and the father and mother I 
lost — God give them eternal rest ” 

"And light never-ending shine upon them,” answered 
Peadhar. 

" — were no Irish king and his consort from holy Hibernia 
but the lowliest of Northumbrians, the humblest of Christ’s 
hard workers. Some say I was born on the Lammer- 
muirs — up North, there nearer the border, others hold I 
was born nearer south, by the Tweed we love so well, who 
shall say? In the storms before Oswald’s peace, how many 
a Saxon lad never knew his father and mother ?” 

He was silent for a moment. Then Peadhar spoke. 

"That was south of the border, Cuthbert. Scottish and 
Pictish boys can tell the same tale to the north.” 


8o 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 


said Cuthbert. '‘We lived by Leaderside, Pead- 
har, when I first tended sheep, and knew my parents’ love. 
Ah well, God took them from me, but He has given me a 
good mother in exchange.” 

“The Good Woman of Wrangholme,” put in Peadhar. 
“Indeed she is good, Cuthbert. All the shepherd-lads call 
her good.” 

“She has been my mother, from the riches of her pov- 
erty,” said Cuthbert. “God’s own dear Mother reward her.” 

They were now rounding the bend in the road. 

“Yonder is Moderatiunculus,” cried Cuthbert. “See, 
Peadhar, he is squatting on the Roman stone by the road- 
side, between the two women with children in their arms, 
well away from the hurly-burly. Let us go and ask them to 
have an eye to him while we join the games.” 

They pushed their way through the press. Young blood 
was hotter then than even now. Perhaps the throng was 
over-boisterous. It took the Church ages to teach her sav- 
age sons that there is more fun and better exercise in gentle 
play than in rough. 

The horsehair cushion we call a boxing-glove is a gift 
of the Catholic Church. Before Christ came boys used a 
cestus — ^a knuckle duster, loaded with lead or iron rings. 

The good woman consented to “mind” little Moder while 
Cuthbert and Peadhar joined the sports. Bigger boys were 
now joining the scores of little ones, but Cuthbert and 
Peadhar were fain to practise a few falls together, till their 
playfellows settled into order. 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 8i 

Little Moder cooed and nodded as the two boys swayed 
and grappled and strove before him, midway between the 
roadside and the throng. At last Peadhar was thrown, and 
his shoulder-blades pressed to the earth firmly, yet so lightly 
that the dust scarce showed on his jerkin as he rose. 

'‘You must teach me that fall, Cuthbert,’' he said sitting 
down by little Moder. 

“I think you were playing away from my right hip so 
carefully that you forgot I had a left,'' said Cuthbert. “The 
best guard is the straight grip and the forward thrust. It’s 
something like the Devil's attack, is it not? He ever 
threatens with the one hand and coaxes with the other. 
Rush right onward with your eyes on God, and he cannot 
throw you. Peadhar, boy, I am preaching. I'll show you 
the fall in a moment; I am off now to romp with the little 
ones for a while." 

He turned as he spoke, panting with the excitement of 
innocent triumph, and plunged into the whirl of children 
who were playing they were Piets and Romans. Some of 
them chanted: 

Arthur o' Bozver has broken his band 
He comes roaring up the land; 

King o' Sects, zvith all his pozver, 

Cannot stay Arthur o' the Bozver, 

“Arthur o' the Bower" was no Roman general of old, 
but really the northwind — Arcturus Boreas. Still, he did 
very well for a war-cry in a romping game then among 


82 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 


small Bernicians, as he does to this hour on the border, 
especially when it is played in high wind. 

Suddenly there came a piercing cry from Moder. Before 
they could hold him, he scurried through the ‘‘battle-field,*’ 
to where Cuthbert was breasting waves of sturdy infantry. 

''Stop, Cuthbert, stop,” he cried, clutching atCuthbert’s kilt. 

It was too late. Cuthbert’s hands were full. It was as 
much as he could do to drop heavily on one knee — too 
heavily, as afterwards proved, to shield the child from a 
shaking and trampling. 

Little Moder lay prone on the ground and sobbed bit- 
terly. The boys stopped dead in their course, with that sud- 
den lull you have often observed when there is a cry 
of unfairness or distress. Such a tiny fellow, too! They 
picked him up with rough tenderness, and tried to comfort 
him. He was quite unhurt, though Cuthbert had a badly 
grazed knee-cap. Peadhar came quietly through the good- 
natured groups. In the vague theory which was all that the 
Church had left of slavery, Peadhar was Moder’s property. 

In reality — in affection, and all higher things that counted 
— little Moder belonged to him. He took the child in his 
arms. 

Then Moder turned to Cuthbert with the solemn gaze of 
I an infant yet fresh from the font. 

"Cuthherte sancte,” he said; “holy Cuthbert, priest and 
bishop, why are you doing what is unfit? God wants you 
to teach others much older than yourself, and to make them 
good. You do wrong to play among children.” 


rUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 


83 


Did Cuthbert understand these words, as he gazed on 
the serious baby-face? We are told he did not, by the 
Monks of Lindisfarne, who knew him well at Mailros. Yet 
the text which says that from the mouths of babes and 
sucklings God has perfected praise must have leapt into his 
mind, for he left the sports and went away, pondering the 
words in his heart. 

Let us, too, mount to the heights with Cuthbert, leaving 
the throng at the cross-roads. 

Good-bye, little Moder! Slainte, Irish Peadhar! We 
must follow your friend to Wrangholme, with canonising 
echoes in our ears. ''Ciithherte sancte!” We are now high 
up on the hills — the hills of Cuthbert’s childhood. The sun 
sets over the Cheviot, twenty good miles away. Between 
where we stand and these misty heights rolls a glorious 
stretch of moorland, from which arise the bleatings of un- 
numbered flocks, plaintive in the stillness. Many a prayer- 
ful watch has Cuthbert kept amongst them. How many 
more will he keep ? 

To right and left are dense patches of forest, smaller than 
of yore, but big enough yet to harbour grey wolves. It 
is against these that Peadhar’s spear and Cuthbert’s North- 
umbrian lance are called into play of winter nights. 

It is darker now, and Cuthbert is walking lame. But 
yonder are the lights of home — the blazing pine-splinter by 
the unglazed window, and the soft red glow of peat-sods 
on the hearth. 


84 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 


II. 


THE STRANGER WHO RODE IN WHITE. 

It was a few days after the gathering at the cross-roads. 
Cuthbert’s knee had swollen badly, and he was unable to 
walk. The leg had even twisted with the pain, and there 
was nothing for it but a good long rest. 

A crashing genuflection upon well-paved ground is a 
tedious thing to heal, even now. The doctors insert little 
pipes to carry away the humours, but rest alone works the 
cure. In Cuthbert’s day they used leeches — as indeed they 
did till twenty years ago. 

So Cuthbert was carried forth daily by the strong Good 
Woman of Wrangholme, and laid in the sunshine by a wall. 

The waiting hours were painful at times, but never tedi- 
ous. God’s roof was over all ; health-giving breezes played 
on the patient boy. There were his prayers, and he had his 
parchment Psalter. The sun, too, told him when he could 
keep the hours of Lindisfarne and Mailros. Above and 
around were the birds he loved, and all wild things of the 
woodland. Beneath was the Tweed, rippling and shimmer- 
ing, winding on to where, almost out of sight, it encircled 
the tongue of land where Mailros stood. 

One day, as he basked him thus in the sun, there rode 
along the track a stranger clad in white. He halted between 
Cuthbert’s bed of moss and the low-thatched cabin of 
Wrangholme. 

He was “very beautiful,” said Cuthbert afterwards. This 


CUl'HBERT OF THE CROOK. 


85 


means he was lovely indeed, for few diseases had yet come 
to mar the beauty of the Angles. 

“Child,” he said mildly, “I crave your hospitality.” 

To understand Cuthbert’s most unwilling refusal, let us 
break the tale to remember what welcoming the stranger 
meant, in the days of good King Oswald. 

The horse must be seen to first. The guest might not 
touch him with a finger. He must be watered and rubbed, 
and bedded and fed with the host’s own hands, in cases 
like Cuthbert’s, where there were no serving-men to take 
the steed in hand. Then came the symbolical offering of 
bread and salt to the stranger, with a prayer to which the 
guest replied. A long draught of ale, or mead, or milk 
next followed, and after this the washing of the feet. No 
ceremonial this, but a thorough and refreshing foot-bath. 
Had the visitor travelled barefoot, or were his brogues or 
sandals defective, the host had to doctor his feet, with salves 
and soothing ointments. 

When perhaps an hour’s hard work was over, there came 
the preparation of a better feast than usual for the stranger 
God had sent. Guthbert, as in honour bound, would have 
had to kill and draw and flay a lamb for the Good Woman 
to roast, that he might have provision for the morrow as 
well as cheer for the night. 

St. Paul’s command of hospitality meant hours of loving 
toil up North — as it still does in Catholic Canada. 

“By God’s good leave,” said Cuthbert, “I am disabled 
for the time, otherwise gladly would I minister to thee.” 


86 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 


“What ails thee, child?’’ said the stranger who rode in 
white. 

Cuthbert told him. The stranger’s mien was very gentle. 

“Boil wheat-flour with milk and bathe your knee with it 
while the mixture is warm,” said the man in white. “Be 
assured that this will cure thee.” 

He rode away, and it was borne in upon Cuthbert’s mind 
that he had spoken with his angel. 

The simplicity of the cure did not deter him. He knew 
that the Jordan had proven a healing stream to Naaman — 
more healing than Abana and Pharphar, rivers of Damas- 
cus — solely because Eliseus had chosen it, and he knew that 
the poisonous pottage of the sons of the prophets would 
never have lost its venom had meal been cast into it by other 
hands than those of the man of God. 

So, in all obedience, the Good Woman and he boiled 
flour with milk, and bathed the swollen knee. 

After some days he was healed. 

“After some days” — for God works slowly in many of 
His wonders. The man born blind saw men, “as trees, 
walking” in the first moments of his cure by Our Lord. 
The deaf and dumb man “began to babble aright.”* One 
of my pupils in old schoolmaster days was a boy born blind, 
whose sight had been given him by Our Lady at Lourdes in 
his fifteenth year. In daily association I knew not which to 
marvel at most — the abundant measure of light poured upon 

♦This is the literal rendering of which our translations made 
“he spoke aright.” 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 87 

his incurable darkness at the Grotto, or the slowness with 
which it grew to almost perfect vision. 

So, “after some days” Cuthbert’s knee was sound. He 
could tread level ground, he could climb the slopes, he could 
ride his horse as of old. And he ever believed that the 
stranger who Rode in White was his own Guardian Angel. 

III. 

BRAVE GRACE BEFORE MEALS. 

He was welcomed back by the owners of the sheep. Au- 
tumn sped by, while Cuthbert mused upon the visit from 
his angel, and the veiled confirmation it gave to Moderns 
prophecy. 

Winter stole on ; a hard and cruel winter. Cuthbert was 
twelve years of age, but so wise and strong and fearless that 
the owners sent him a long journey beyond the Wear — 
whether to buy new rams, or collect money from the 
weavers, or to fulfil some like behest, his chroniclers do not 
tell us. 

Have you passed through that country? With all its 
mines, with all its army of toiling colliers, it is desolate still. 
What must it have been in the days of Cuthbert of the 
Crook ! Heavy rains came on, and the boy turned for cover 
to a deserted shed. It was one like those he knew so well 
on Tweedside — ^thatched shanties used by the shepherds in 
summer, when pasturing their flocks on the higher grounds. 

The boy was glad to escape the downpour, and even his 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 


horse whinnied as Cuthbert dismounted and led him within. 
Wet and weary, beast and boy, after hours of hard riding 
against furious wind and rain, over roads a Roman would 
laugh at, they were both of them fiercely hungry. 

Knowing the customs of his kind, Cuthbert rummaged 
for such spare provisions as the shepherds might have 
stowed in the shed. All his skilled, hunting was in vain. 

So Cuthbert tightened his girdle, and settled down to 
pray. Surely the weather would clear ! In any case, as the 
proverb of Peadhar’s people said, “God’s help was nearer 
than the door.” 

Now, while he prayed, his hungry horse, with delicately 
sniffing nostrils, began a search of the shed in his own sa- 
gacious fashion. It was as fruitless as Cuthbert’s, and the 
poor brute fell to nibbling the sour straw of the low-hanging 
thatch. 

Presently there was a soft thud as the horse pulled forth 
from the eaves a bundle of fragrant hay, which scattered 
as it fell on the cobbles, disclosing a linen cloth containing 
fresh bread and meat. 

The horse fell to at once, and munched away. But Cuth- 
bert, the hearty boy of twelve, did a beautiful thing which 
— I fear me much — ^both you and I might have forgotten 
in his plight. He finished his prayer to the Giver, before 
he tackled the gifts. 

And then ? Why then he ate God’s rations, and thanked 
Him anew, and went on his journey as the weather cleared. 

Can we wonder God loved him? Assuredly not. In 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 


89 


greater or less degree, the dear God wooes every Catholic 
boy. But so many are deaf. There is ‘‘form” to be con- 
sidered, you see. Even very good lads say this. “Form” — 
what is “form” after all? It is the prudence of those the 
world calls prudent. It is really the flattest of silliness. We 
are not sent here to live according to it, but according to 
the Gospel. Cuthbert had health, had education, had 
friends, had a horse and a spear, and a sympathetic king 
in Oswald. Add to these charm of manner and skill in 
athletics, and you have a “capital” for starting life equiv- 
alent in our gold to full £5,000. 

God wooed the boy to give all up — ^to Him. How — we 
shall see in our next chapter, the true story of the Globe of 
Fire. 

IV. 


THE GLOBE OF FIRE. 

Bernicia. That was the name of the land where Cuthbert 
worked and prayed — and wrestled and leapt and raced. It 
was Northern Northumbria really. A name which perhaps 
speaks more clearly to us of its position and extent. 

Of Bernicia — or northernmost Northumbria — the holy 
Aidan was Apostle. He had founded Lindisfarne Abbey, 
on the isle that stands out to sea from Berwick. He had 
established, too, the inland monastery of Mailros. This 
also was built on a sort of island — a tongue of land en- 
circled by the Tweed. 

Distances were nothing to a healthy boy with a horse. 


90 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 


Young Cuthbert was always in touch with the monks of 
Old Melrose. 

By the way, as Scottish lads can tell you, Old Melrose 
(that is, Mailros) was two miles further down the stream 
than the Abbey Saint David founded. That was five cen- 
turies later, and it is the ruins of Saint David’s structure 
that we see on photographs, with the title “Melrose Abbey.” 

For all that he was a nomad. Cuthbert had grown up 
beneath the shadow of Mailros. St. Aidan’s life kept him 
hovering about the monastery gates. St. Aidan’s death 
bade him enter them. 

One night, while he kept sheep with other lads, on the 
hills by Tweed and Leader, he prayed in his watches as he 
was used to do. His eyes were turned eastward. Some- 
where out yonder, St. Aidan was praying with his sons, 
hemmed in from the noises of the world by the plash of 
the Northern Sea. 

As Cuthbert prayed, and looked into the mirk, he sud- 
denly saw a stream of light — more abiding and softer than 
lightning — which cleft the deep darkness that settles before 
the dawn. 

Presently he beheld angels descending from heaven. 
Anon they remounted, bearing amid them a dazzling globe 
of fire. It was whispered to Cuthbert that this was the soul 
of Aidan, at that moment passing to glory. 

The vision faded — faded away into the star-sprinkled 
firmament. Cuthbert roused his companions and told them 
what he had seen. They all praised God together, as sin- 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 


91 


cerely as the shepherds of the Flock Tower by Bethlehem, 
to all of whom such a sight had been vouchsafed. 

Yet the vision had no call to them — to those who saw it 
not — save a heartening in God's service. With Cuthbert 
it was different. He resolved then and there to hand over 
his flocks to the owners, and to give himself to God. 

But where? Surely where else then in Mailros, the Ab- 
bey he knew so well, where Eata was Abbot, and the holy 
Boisil prior — ^St. Boisil whose name lives yet in that of the 
village of St. Boswell. 

To horse, then, the moment he has yielded his charge! 
There are years for leisure, but there is an hour for haste. 
To horse, with his strong spear! There be miscreants on 
the road, to break King Oswald’s peace ; besides, horse and 
spear are costly, and the Abbey is yet very poor. What 
can they have, in gold and gear, the monks Aidan brought 
from Iona? 

To horse! He can scarce have stayed for the blessing 
of the Woman of Wrangholme, oft as he visited her in 
later years. For he took no provision, and it is written that 
ravens fed him, as they fed Elijah of old. 

A furious ride indeed, for the boy’s heart revelled in its 
high emprise. 

As he leapt from his horse at the gate, he gave it up 
to the brother porter, together with his glittering spear. 

And one of those who looked upon him, as he galloped 
into the arms of God, turned round and spoke his thought 
to some of the brethren near. 


92 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 


“Behold,” said St. Boisil the Prior, “behold a servant of 
the Lord.” 

sjj * * * * 

Within a few days one of Cuthbert’s fellow-novices was 
thinking thoughts of him which he wrote down thus with 
a grey goose-quill in after years at Lindisfarne: “O my 
brothers, I presume not to think myself worthy to have 
enjoyed his conversation. No words could ever express 
what it was. An angel in look, graceful in language, holy 
in all he did; pure in body, brilliant in genius, great in 
counsel. Catholic in faith, most patient in hope, and bound- 
less in charity.” 

St. Boisil read boys; St. Boisil read Cuthbert; St. Boisil 
loved him. “Loved him,” we are told, “beyond all his 
brethren, on account of his marvellous innocence of life.” 

And Cuthbert, no longer “of the Crook,” dearly loved 
Saint Boisil. Under his guidance he studied the Scriptures, 
and advanced in wisdom and grace before God and 
man. 


V. 


THE COMEDY OF THE RAVENS ; AND A FIRE. 

Our tale is told. 

We have ended the story of Cuthbert of the Crook, and 
the rest is the long, brave history of St. Cuthbert, Bishop 
and Abbot. 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK. 


93 


Yet a Saint keeps ever the boyish fun of his teens, and 
affection for those who loved him. Here are two peeps into 
each of these, which show how St. Cuthbert remembered 
old times, in the hard-working hours of his manhood. 

After twelve years as Prior at Lindisfarne, he pined for 
a spell of solitude. He was allowed to seek it in the islet 
of Fame, two leagues away from Lindisfarne, but only two 
miles from the mainland. It is a mere patch of a place, 
eleven acres in extent at low water. 

Cuthbert would not be a charge to his brethren. He did 
all for himself in his desolate domain. He tried to grow 
wheat, but it failed. He was more successful with barley. 
Then the birds came and picked his crops. This worried 
him, for they destroyed far more than they needed for 
themselves. 

So he used the power which the Saints have regained, 
and which Adam lost by sin. He scolded the birds, and 
they obeyed him. Of course he scattered them grain — all 
Saints love birds. But they ravaged no more, and there 
was peace in the islet of Fame, with its population of one 
Saint, and ravenous sea-birds unnumbered. 

Then there was rebellion. A couple of amusing and 
disobedient old ravens began to lead vicious courses. True, 
they sinned in a way that had not been expressly forbidden. 
They stripped the thatch from the roof of a shelter-house, 
near the harbour on the east of Fame. 

What followed is — may we dare the word? — a lark. 
St. Cuthbert gravely ordered them off the island! They 


94 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK, 


obeyed. But he afterwards let them return and — hypocrites 
as all the raven family are, from jackdaws upwards and 
downwards — they gave every sign of repentance, and wholly 
amended their lives ! 

God had sent His servant a little fun for his hours of 
recreation. 

He * 

A word about Wrangholme, and Cuthbert’s mother, and 
then we may make an end. 

He never forgot the Good Woman who had mothered him 
in his orphanage. In all his toil for souls, he visited Wrang- 
holme as often as he could. 

One day when he went there, the heather was ablaze, and 
his early home was in danger of fire. A strong wind blew 
the flames towards it, carrying lighted wisps that might 
settle on the thatch. Cuthbert bade the Good Woman take 
heart. Then he flung himself prone on the ground by the 
threshold so often trodden by his boyish feet. There he 
silently prayed, for a space, and the wind blew away across 
the moor, and left the cabin unscathed. 

* * jje jjt 

We may close on St. Cuthbert’s prayer, which they said 
in an older England, out of the Sarum Missal: ''0 God, 
who by the priceless guerdon of Thy grace, dost make Thy 
saints so glorious, grant, we beseech Thee, that by the inter- 
cession of the blessed Cuthbert, Thy Confessor and Bishop, 


CUTHBERT OF THE CROOK, 


95 


we may deserve to attain to the summit of all virtues. 
Through Christ Our Lord. Amen.” 

If he will but stretch forth his crook — as he assuredly 
will for the asking — he will lead us, poor blundering sheep, 
to the mountain-top — the Culmen virtutum of his prayer. 


CAST UPON THE WATERS. 


I. 

In the days of Constantine the Great there existed at Bery- 
tus a famous Academy for the study of law. To this school 
were sent many Greek and Roman boys of good family, 
who, having finished their preliminary literary education at 
home, wished to qualify themselves for the legal profession. 

At the Court of Constantine there lived a very devoted 
Christian family consisting of father and mother and two 
sons. Xenophon, the father, was a senator, greatly esteemed 
by the Emperor, and when the boys, John and Arcadius, 
declared that they both wished to study law, though the 
devout Xenophon and his saintly wife, Mary, would have 
been glad for their sons to have chosen a higher state of 
life, they resolved to send the lads to Berytus. 

The parting was a sad one. Their father was so ill that 
it seemed unlikely they would ever see him again. Gladly 
would they have postponed their departure, for they were 
both very young; but as they knelt at his bedside for his 
farewell blessing, he bade them hasten their departure lest 
they should miss their ship, and with the utmost faith in 
the goodness of Divine Providence, commended them to the 
mercy and the love of the Most High. So with heavy 
hearts, and with many a prayer for their sick father and 
for their sorrowing mother, they embarked for Berytus. 


CAST UPON THE WATERS. 


97 


Not many days had they been at sea when they encoun- 
tered a terrible storm — a tempest so violent that in a very 
short time their vessel was a complete wreck. Death in one 
of its most appalling forms stared them in the face. There 
seemed to be no hope of escape, no chance of rescue. 
Throwing themselves into each other’s arms, they gave one 
another an affectionate kiss, and lingered as long as they 
dared over their last farewell. 

Drifting fast towards a reef, the vessel broke up into 
fragments, and as the waves sported with the wreckage, the 
two boys, clinging for dear life each to a separate spar, soon 
lost sight of one another. Happily, however, after much 
suffering, each, unknown to the other, managed to reach 
land, though at points so distant that each felt perfectly 
certain that the other was lost. 

Terribly bruised and battered, and completely exhausted 
by his battle with the waves, John crawled painfully to the 
door of the first building he could see. To his great content 
he soon saw that it was a monastery. His own father and 
mother could not have treated him with greater care than 
that with which these holy monks tended him. As he 
lay in his comfortable bed, looking into the cheerful faces 
that surrounded him, kissing the loving hands that dressed 
his wounds and brought him every kind of strengthening 
food and drink that could be procured, his heart went out to 
the devoted men who had consecrated themselves to the per- 
petual service of God and to the succour of their neighbour. 

The thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts, and as 


98 


CAST UPON THE WATERS, 


John lay, week after week, slowly recovering from his in- 
juries, he had much time for reflection. That the brother he 
loved so tenderly was lying deep in the sepulchre of the sea, 
John did not doubt: that his beloved father lay sick unto 
death seemed highly probable. Probably by this time he 
was already dead and buried. 

In the face of death, how trifling and unimportant every- 
thing else seemed! Even though, by the mercy of God, 
he, John, had been spared for the present, it was certain 
that sooner or later his soul would be required of him. 
Doubtless the monks would help him to reach Berytus, but 
now that Arcadius had been snatched from his side, was it 
worth his while to pursue those legal studies that were to 
help him to achieve fame and fortune? Were fame and 
fortune in themselves worth acquiring — compared with the 
peace and consolation and happiness that he saw in the faces 
of the holy men who were about him? Cast upon the 
waters of the sea, yet preserved by the goodness of God, 
ought he now to cast himself upon the wide waters of the 
world ? 

John knew well how ardently his parents had wished and 
prayed that he and Arcadius might be called to some such 
holy state of life as this; yet so loving and unselfish were 
both mother and father that they had never opposed theif 
sons^ choice of the profession of the law. Now that Area- 
dius had passed away, and that there was a high degree of 
probability that his father also was among the dead, it was 
exceedingly unlikely that his mother would long survive 


CAST UPON THE WATERS. 


99 


them. Nay, as John began to remind himself that she would 
be almost sure to hear of the wreck of the ship, and would, 
consequently, bemoan the loss of both her children, he felt 
certain that such multiplied grief would soon deprive her of 
life. Why, then, should he desire more of that worldly 
career whose lasting joys were so scanty and so uncertain? 
Why should he not yield to the holy impulse that was now 
stirring in his breast, and offer his whole life and being to 
the service of the Eternal ? 

So it came to pass very sweetly that, as soon as John could 
leave his couch, he was clothed in the habit of religion, and 
began to perform the duties and exercises of a novice-monk. 


II. 

Xenophon, the father of John and Arcadius, recovered 
from the malady with which, at their departure, he had been 
so sorely afflicted. And now, day by day, he and his wife 
anxiously awaited news from Berytus. Not even the report 
of the loss of the ship reached their ears, and after some 
time they decided to send a special messenger to the Acad- 
emy. There the servant quickly heard of the wreck of the 
vessel in which his master's sons had set sail. 

On the day of the messenger's return, Xenophon was 
in attendance upon the Emperor, so that the mother was 
first to hear the sad news from Berytus — where, said the 
man, it was believed that all on board the wrecked ship had 
perished. With great fortitude Mary heard of this terrible 
1.0FC. 


100 


CAST UPON THE WATERS. 


calamity. “The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away : 
blessed be the name of the Lord !” was her only comment. 

Anxious to break this overwhelming message very gently, 
when her husband returned from Court in the evening, at- 
tended by a crowd of retainers and torchbearers, she spoke 
no word until they sat down to supper. Xenophon soon saw 
that his wife was troubled, but as he had not heard of the 
return of the messenger from Berytus, he did not suspect 
the true cause of Mary’s sadness. 

But as the meal proceeded she could not but speak of 
the man’s probable return, and at length admit that he was 
actually in the house. 

“And his letters, his letters? where are they?” cried the 
now agitated father. It was in vain that she begged him 
to delay his reading of them and to proceed with the meal. 

“Tell me,” he begged of her in a low, agitated voice, 
“tell me at once if it is well with our children !” 

Then, with all the self-restraint of which she was capable, 
she told him of the loss of the ship. Full of admiration for 
the great control of herself that she had shown, he ex- 
claimed: “Blessed be God for giving me such a prudent 
and self-forgetful wife!” And rising from his place, he 
kissed her affectionately, and did all in his power to soothe 
her grief. 

Were their children dead or alive? The question gave 
them neither rest nor peace: it was one that no one in 
Byzantium could answer. The probability was that both 
boys had perished at sea : yet so long as there remained the 


CAST UPON THE WATERS. 


lOI 


smallest hope of seeing them again, Mary and Xenophon 
could not rest. Whether their children were alive or dead, 
father and mother felt constrained to go in search of them. 

Determined to try and obtain the blessing of God on 
what they feared might prove to be a long and arduous 
pilgrimage, they resolved to make for Jerusalem and to pay 
devout visits to the holy places. They would kneel at Geth- 
semani and on the hill of Calvary; there would they pour 
out their prayers to the pitiful Saviour of the world. 

Completely resigned to the adorable Will of God, they 
reached the holy city, and after a few days they had the 
consolation of meeting face to face a young man who had 
been employed in the capacity of body servant to their sons 
and sent with them to Berytus. The youth now wore the 
habit of a monk, and Xenophon knelt before him reverently 
— much to his confusion. 

"‘At least permit me to kiss your habit,’' said the senator, 
*^and then tell us all you know of my poor sons.” 

But the young monk had little or nothing to tell, except 
that the vessel had been broken up, and that, as far as he 
knew, he and he alone had been saved. 

III. 

Many long, weary months passed away, and though Mary 
and Xenophon were determined not to give up their search, 
they could only think of their children as being numbered 
among the dead. 


102 


CAST UPON THE WATERS. 


One day, in visiting a certain monastery, they asked to 
have speech of the Abbot, a holy man with whom they had 
not hitherto been acquainted. Very willingly did the Abbot 
listen to their story, and long before they had finished he 
felt certain that one of the two boys they spoke of was in 
his own cloister. Moreover, he had some reason for sup- 
posing that the other lad was also living, and that he, too, 
was clothed in the habit of religion. 

But the Abbot was prudent, and though he felt justified 
in assuring them that both their sons were alive, he begged 
them to meet him on an early day on the hill of Calvary, 
when, he assured them, he felt certain that he would have 
for them a further message of consolation. Greatly com- 
forted, and blessing the goodness of God, Mary and Xeno- 
phon joyfully promised to keep their appointment with the 
Abbot. 

We have already seen that John found his way to a 
religious house, and that after a time he took the habit. But 
the younger brother, Arcadius, not doubting that John was 
drowned, had made his way straight to Jerusalem. Without 
money, and without friends, the boy knew not where to go 
or what to do. Calling one day at this very monastery 
to beg for a little food, the good Abbot had listened to 
his story and had subsequently received him into his 
monastery. 

Now, though the cloister in which the elder brother, John, 
was living was far away from Jerusalem, there were times 
when its monks were permitted to go to the holy city on 


CAST UPON THE WATERS. 


103 


pilgrimage, and among them at this very time was John 
himself. Probably the likeness between the two brothers 
was very strong; at any rate, the Abbot upon whom Xeno- 
phon and Mary had called, and in whose house Arcadius 
was actually living, felt certain that he had seen the missing 
brother among the pilgrims at the holy places. 

So it came about on the following day that just as John 
had finished his devotions in the neighbourhood of Mount 
Calvary, a messenger came to him and asked him to speak 
to a certain Abbot who was not far off, and who had some- 
thing of importance to say to him. 

The Abbot received John with much kindness, and after 
asking him a few questions was satisfied that he was in truth 
the son of Mary and Xenophon and the brother of Arcadius 
— who was standing, cowled, only a little distance from his 
Superior, trembling with emotion as he heard the well- 
known tones of his brother's voice. 

And now the two long-lost brothers threw back their 
cowls and met each other in a long and joyful embrace, shed- 
ding an abundance of happy tears. 

'‘But, my dear sons,’' said the Abbot, smiling upon them 
through his own tears, “you must restrain yourselves as 
much as possible. Your parents are even now on their way 
hither, and I must prepare them for the sight of their chil- 
dren, lest the joy of meeting you be more than they can 
bear. Do you withdraw yourselves a little while I go for- 
ward to meet them.” 

So the two young monks covered their heads and re- 


}04 


CAST UPON THE WATERS. 


mained behind the Abbot, while he greeted their parents 
with a joyful message. 

‘‘Rejoice, my dear ones !’’ exclaimed the holy man. “Re- 
joice, and praise God! Your sons are indeed found. But 
now I wish you to go and prepare a little feast. By and 
by I will come to you, accompanied by these two monks. 
Then, when we have eaten, I will bring to you your beloved 
boys.” 


IV. 

Overwhelmed with happiness, Xenophon and Mary has- 
tened away to their lodging and at once prepared the most 
delicate banquet that could be procured. Soon came the 
kindly Abbot with his two cowled attendants, who, pretend- 
ing to eat, remained quite silent, though scarcely able to re- 
strain their emotion. 

Anxious that his host and hostess should be strengthened 
and fortified for the joyful shock of meeting their long-lost 
children, the Abbot encouraged them to eat and drink, while 
he adroitly led the conversation to the subject of the religious 
life in general, and then to the wonderful lives led by so 
many thousands of monks and ascetics in and near the holy 
city. 

To Xenophon and to his wife no subject could have been ' 
more pleasing or more entertaining. From the time of their 
conversion they had always held the life of religious men 
and women in great esteem, and as the Abbot dwelt lovingly 
on the peace and happiness enjoyed by those who conse- 


CAST UPON THE WATERS. 


105 


crated themselves wholly to the service of God, Xenophon 
cried out: ‘‘Ah, my Father, though through your instru- 
mentality the good God is about to restore to our arms the 
children we so tenderly love, how gladly would we give 
them back to His service — if only John and Arcadius felt 
themselves drawn to that noble and beautiful life.’' 

“But,” said the smiling Abbot, “that would be but to lose 
again, and perhaps for ever in this life, the beloved ones 
you have so long and so unweariedly searched for.” 

“It matters not,” replied Xenophon. “God grant us to 
see their faces once again in life. But if we are so happy 
as to find that since they left us their hearts have been drawn 
above, where alone true joys are to be found, how willingly 
would we give them back to the good God.” 

As Xenophon spoke, the Abbot turned to the two cowled 
lads he had called his disciples, and saw that their heads 
were bowed upon their breasts, and that they were watering 
their food with many tears. 

“And now, my son,” said the Abbot to Arcadius, “tell 
our good host and hostess how you were led to embrace the 
religious life.” 

But scarcely had the lad thrown back the hood that shaded 
his face — hardly had the sound of his voice fallen upon 
his mother’s ears, when both she and her husband uttered 
a great cry of joy, and in another instant the boys were 
folded in the arms of their parents. 

“My dear ones,” said the Abbot, as soon as the first 
paroxysm of joy had passed, “let us give praise and thanks 


io6 CAST UPON THE WATERS. 

to God for His marvellous goodness to each and all 
of ns.” 

So for a space the dining-chamber became an oratory, and 
resounded with psalms and canticles of thanksgiving. 

Especially did Xenophon and Mary rejoice that the bread 
of religious instruction that they had cast upon the waters 
of their children's early years had now so sweetly returned 
to them, though after so many days. Always in the hear- 
ing of their little ones had they extolled the religious state; 
always had they shown examples of reverence and respect to 
wearers of the monastic habit. Carefully had they explained 
to their sons the truths of the Faith, and the exceeding 
beauty of the life of the Evangelical Counsels. Now, in 
the growing strength and beauty of their youth, the two 
boys had whole-heartedly offered themselves to the Creator. 

Mary and Xenophon never returned to their luxurious 
home at Byzantium. In the land hallowed by the Blood 
of the Redeemer, they, too, dedicated themselves to the 
service of Christ. Henceforth, father, mother, and sons 
lived wholly for God. Separated in body, their hearts beat 
together in a holy harmony; their aim in life was one and 
the same ; the glory of God and the good of their neighbour 
was their sole concern. 

But what of their reunion in the Heaven of heavens! 


THE EIGHT AGAINST EPHESUS. 


Ephesus was keeping high festival. To celebrate the 
visit of the Emperor, great functions were being held in 
honour of Zeus, Apollo, and Artemis, and it seemed as 
though the entire population of the city was assisting at the 
spectacle. 

Yet now and again during the progress of the rites it was 
whispered that the bearers of well-known and honoured 
names were missing from the festival. Several leading 
citizens were absent; men of repute, who ought to have 
been in conspicuous places, were not to be seen. Even the 
schoolboys looked in vain for some of their companions. 

Then, later in the day, the whisper grew that very early 
that morning certain people, who were known to be Chris- 
tians, had been seen going in the direction of the house 
where the worshippers of the Crucified Jesus were wont to 
assemble. No less than eight young boys had been detected 
running thither, and their names were already noted down 
by an officer. To-morrow, no doubt, they would be de- 
nounced to the Emperor, for it was intolerable that the 
great Decius should be defied by mere children. The leader 
of the eight lads was Jamblicus, the son of Rufus, but it 
was certain that his father’s high position in the city would 
not save the boy from arrest. 


io8 THE EIGHT AGAINST EPHESUS. 

The rumour proved to be correct, for on the following 
morning, just before noonday, four couples of manacled 
boys were being led by soldiers through the streets of 
Ephesus. A great crowd followed them to the steps of the 
palace in which Decius was already sitting, waiting to pass 
sentence. Some pitied and some derided the fettered lads, 
who had only just reached their teens, and who, in spite 
of their resolute appearance, were suffering all the pangs of 
anticipated punishment. 

The Emperor was not prepared to waste time over the 
trial of a pack of schoolboys. When he had heard the evi- 
dence against them, and when, in answer to his question, 
they had admitted the fact of their absence from the pagan 
festival, he turned to the officers and said: “This time we 
will let them off with the punishment that is given to boys. 
Take them away and strip them, tie them up and flog them 
with rods. But before you dismiss them, show them the 
rack and all the other pretty instruments of torture that you 
keep for impious Christians. If they disobey a second time 
let them be tortured.'' 

An hour later the eight lads left the dungeons of the 
palace. Their tender bodies were bruised and bleeding, and 
as they passed through the streets of the city, trying to at- 
tract as little attention as possible, they clung to each other 
affectionately, and began in low whispers to ask one another 
what course of action they ought to take. They were Chris- 
tians, and Christians they would remain, scorning the con- 


THE EIGHT AGAINST EPHESUS. 


109 


sequences ; yet they could not but admit that the exhibition 
of those instruments of torture to which they had just been 
treated was a frightful and a horrible one. 

“Let us get out of the city for a while,” said one of them, 
“before we are overheard and recognised.” 

“Why should we remain in Ephesus at all?” asked Jam- 
blicus, their leader. “If we go on living here we are sure 
to be tortured.” 

“We have money,” said another, “why should we not 
make a home and an oratory for ourselves outside the 
city?” 

“In that case,” Jamblicus assured them, “I know a cave at 
the foot of yonder mountain where we should be quite safe. 
The Emperor Decius cannot live for ever. Why should 
we not retire from the world and wait for better times and 
a more merciful ruler ?” 

Though their wounded backs were giving them great pain, 
they now began to step out swiftly and joyously. For 
their present needs they had sufficient money, and in the 
cave Jamblicus described they would work and pray and 
wait. 

When they reached the cave, tired and exhausted, they 
knelt down in a ring and humbly commended themselves to 
Jesus Christ. 

“O Good Shepherd,” prayed the leader, “do Thou choose 
us to be Thine own lambs, and in Thy great pity guard Thy 
little flock from the fangs of the ravening wolf.” And the 
seven answered, “Amen.” 


no 


THE EIGHT AGAINST EPHESUS. 


When they had thus prayed, a great drowsiness fell upon 
them, and one by one they laid themselves down upon the 
floor of the cave. 

Then the good God gave to His beloved — sleep. 

Decius did not forget the Christian boys he had sentenced 
to be flogged, and when, on inquiry, he was told that they 
had run away from the city and were known to be living 
in a mountain cave, he was very angry. “They have digged 
their own grave,” he declared; “that cave shall be their 
living tomb. Let the mouth of it be entirely walled up. 
They shall never leave it alive.” 

Now all the time the masons were at work walling up 
the entrance to the cave the eight lads lay stretched upon 
the floor in a deep and tranquil sleep. Meanwhile, two 
young men, the sons of two Ephesian philosophers, wrote 
on tablets of lead the names of the eight children, together 
with the order of the Emperor, and the offences of which 
the boys were supposed to be guilty. Then, just before 
the last stone was inserted in the wall, the leaded tablets 
were thrown within the cave. 

One hundred and eighty years passed away, and the cave 
remained as it was left by the masons of Decius. Then, 
one day, when a rich Ephesian was looking about the moun- 
tain for a suitable site upon which to build a sheep-cote, he 
came upon a very solid stone wall that filled up what seemed 
to be the entrance to a natural cave. Thinking that this 


THE EIGHT AGAINST EPHESUS, 


III 


would suit his purpose far better than a new building, he 
ordered the wall to be removed. For the first time for nearly 
two centuries light shone into the living sepulchre. The 
eight boys stirred in their sleep, sat up, and began to talk. 

“Surely,^’ said the youngest child, “we went to sleep 
without any supper! I am very hungry. But who of us 
would dare to go down to the city and buy food ?” 

“I will go,” said Jamblicus, starting to his feet. “Do 
you remain here in the cave. No one in the streets will 
notice a solitary boy. I have money, and will buy what is 
needful.” 

To the intense surprise of Jamblicus, when he arrived at 
the gate of the city, he saw that it was surmounted by the 
Cross of Christ. Cautiously looking round to make sure 
that no one noticed him, he bowed to the Symbol of Salva- 
tion and passed on. “Doubtless,” he said to himself, “this 
is some trick on the part of the Emperor to make Christians 
reveal themselves. I must be cautious.” 

But to his bewilderment he found the Cross displayed 
everywhere. Passing into the market place he failed to rec- 
ognise the old landmarks, and he was fain to ask a passerby 
the name of the city in order to be sure that he had not 
come to a strange town. “This is Ephesus,” said the man 
he had accosted, and Jamblicus began to think that he must 
still be asleep and dreaming. 

Yet here was a baker’s shop, and here was real bread. 
It was food that he had come to buy, and his comrades were 
awaiting it. 


THE EIGHT AGAINST EPHESUS. 


1 12 

*^But what is this?’^ asked the baker, as he took up and 
examined the coin Jamblicus put down. ^‘Where did you 
find this, my boy?” 

‘‘In my pouch,” said the lad, wonderingly. 

“Come ! come !” said the man, seizing him by the arm, “it 
is plain to me that you have found some hidden treasure. 
Tell me, now, where you discovered them.” 

“I have found nothing,” said the lad, stoutly: “the coin 
was my own.” 

“Here,” called the baker to his assistants, “just make this 
lad fast, will you? If he won’t tell where the treasure is 
we’ll haul him off to prison.” 

Trembling in the grasp of his captors, Jamblicus could 
only aver that the money was his own, and that he knew 
nothing of any hidden treasure. 

Soon a big crowd gathered round the shop, and it be- 
came known in the market place that a strangely clad boy 
was in possession of treasure-trove. In a very short time the 
rumour of it reached the ears of the Bishop of Ephesus. “I 
will go and speak to the child,” said the kindly prelate. 

Gently questioning Jamblicus as to his name and parent- 
age, the boy answered, simply enough, that he was the 
son of Rufus, one of the chief citizens of Ephesus. The 
Bishop knew no such man, and began to think that the poor 
boy was demented. Eagerly Jamblicus looked about him, 
feeling sure that he would see some friend or relation. Alas 1 
every one of the faces fixed upon him was that of a stranger. 
He began to sob and to weep. 


THE EIGHT AGAINST EPHESUS. 


113 

Then a philosopher in the crowd stepped forward and 
began to question the boy. “Tell us where you have lately 
lived,” said the man. 

“I will tell you everything,” answered the weeping lad, 
“if you will first tell me where the Emperor Decius is now 
living.” 

“Boy, you are making a mock of your elders !” exclaimed 
the angry philosopher. 

“No, indeed I am not,” protested Jamblicus. “My ques- 
tion was put quite seriously.” 

“But Decius died a hundred and eighty years ago,” 
laughed the philosopher. 

“Pardon me, sir, that can scarcely be,” said the child. 
“It was only yesterday that my seven schoolmates and I 
were arrested and flogged by his orders, and that we after- 
wards ran away from the city. I have just left the seven 
of them in a cave of the mountain. If you do not believe 
me, I will lead you to them.” 

“There is some deep mystery here,” said the Bishop, tak- 
ing the boy by the hand. “But be sure this child is neither 
thief nor deceiver. Lead us to the cave, my son: I myself 
will look into this strange matter.” 

Greatly comforted, Jamblicus guided the Bishop, who was 
followed by a crowd of people, to the mountain cave. 

Meanwhile, the boys, in their hiding place, were anxiously 
awaiting the return of their leader. At length, hearing the 
tramp of many feet and the sound of voices, they became 
alarmed, feeling sure that the cruel Emperor had already 


THE EIGHT AGAINST EPHESUS. 


114 

seized Jamblicus, and was sending his officers to rearrest 
them and lead them to torture and to death. 

But when the door of the cave was darkened only by 
the form of the saintly Bishop, hand in hand with their 
brave comrade, they took heart. Great was the crowd out- 
side, but though it was an inquiring crowd it was not a 
hostile one. Anxious as the people were to catch sight of 
the boys within, no one attempted to follow the Bishop and 
his guide, for the children were plainly visible from the 
open. 

Much moved by the sight that met his eyes, the Bishop 
assured the boys that the persecuting Emperor had long 
been dead, and that now they had nothing to fear. He 
would himself write to the reigning monarch, Theodosius, 
who, no doubt, would wish to see this marvel with his own 
eyes. Meanwhile, and until the Emperor had visited them, 
it might be well for them to remain where they were. 

Greatly cheered by the discourse of the Bishop, and forti- 
fied with his blessing, the boys tranquilly awaited the coming 
of the Emperor. 

With much reverence did Theodosius hold conference 
with the children, and very earnestly did he beg them to 
come down to Ephesus, where he promised to build them a 
cloister and a church. But when they knelt before him and 
besought him, for the love of the Crucified, to permit them 
to remain where, as it seemed, they had been raised from the 
sleep of death in order to testify to the Faith, he could not 
refuse their request. 


THE EIGHT AGAINST EPHESUS. 115 

“We would remain in this sepulchre,” said Jamblicus for 
the rest, “because we have chosen it, and we love it. It may 
be that the Lord Christ has only permitted us to return to 
this mortal life for a short space, so that we may testify to 
the pagan world the great truth of the Resurrection of the 
Dead.” 

And even as the child spoke, one by one he and his com- 
panions laid themselves down as if to sleep. 

Before he departed, the Emperor perceived that the Good 
Shepherd had already taken the souls of His little lambs into 
the Eternal Fold. 


THE BETHLEHEM SHEPHERD-BOY. 


It was the Eve of Christmas. In the house of St John the 
the Beloved, our blessed Lady sat gazing upon the wintry 
sky. So pure and white was the falling snow that it might 
well seem to be the product of a fairer world than that upon 
which it had come to lie for a little space; but the Blessed 
Mother needed nothing of earth to remind her of her exile, 
and of the Adorable Child she had given to the world now 
so many years ago. 

Prayerfully and happily she sat, the Immaculate One, and 
the Disciple whom Jesus loved sat with her, reverencing her 
holy silence and the sweet contemplation which the ap- 
proaching festival of Christmas must needs deepen and 
prolong. 

Suddenly the Holy Mother spoke. ^‘My son,’’ she said, 
‘‘my Beloved’s dying gift to me — I know now that my days 
on earth are short. This holy time makes me long to visit 
that thrice blessed Bethlehem where my Lord and Love was 
born. Could you not take me thither, and there at mid- 
night upon the holy spot itself offer the Eucharistic sacri- 
fice? Thus would you bring to me in His adorable Sacra- 
ment my God and the Love of my soul.” 

Joyfully St. John received the wish that he regarded as a 
most sweet command, and happily did the Mother and her 
protector set out for Bethlehem. 


THE BETHLEHEM SHEPHERD-BOY. 


117 

Long ere they reached the little town darkness had fallen 
upon the entire land, but the road was as familiar to them 
as it was dear, and they reached their place of pilgrimage 
and of prayer long before the midnight hour. Silently they 
sought and quickly entered the little stable-cavern. 

Absorbed in prayer, it was some time before they were 
conscious of the entrance into the stable of a third pilgrim. 
Turning slightly, they saw a man looking very worn and 
weary, and, though a gleam of joy shot across his face as 
he entered the grotto, one who seemed to be in the very last 
stage of exhaustion. Pressing close to the spot where once 
stood the Holy Manger, the pilgrim bowed himself in wor- 
ship. But only for an instant. His body sank to the very 
earth, and bending over him Our Lady saw that he was 
already unconscious. 

Very gently and tenderly did the Blessed Mother and St. 
John come to his relief, and soon the worn-out stranger 
opened his eyes and gave vent to a feeble cry of joy. 

“Am I dreaming?’^ he asked with a smile of happiness, as 
Our Lady again bent over him. “It is — it must be that same 
most Blessed Mother! Ah, Lady, it was not likely you 
would remember me. Tis so many years ago, and I was 
only a rough little shepherd-lad. But with my companions 
I heard the angel-music, and I saw the winter midnight 
grow brighter than summer noonday. And with the shep- 
herd crowd I came here to worship the Child-Messiah. Now 
it is a tradition among my people that when we love we 
offer gifts, and when we worship we make sacrifice. I had 


ii8 THE BETHLEHEM SHEPHERD-BOY. 

but one treasure in the world — a fair and goodly lamb. 
This, dear Lady, I laid at your blessed feet as an offering to 
the Child upon your bosom, and, though it may have been 
a boyish fancy, methought the Holy Baby smiled upon me. 
In many lands I have wandered since that wondrous night, 
but I have never forgotten you and your heavenly Child. 
And though I have but little knowledge of such high 
mysteries, the memory of that midnight has kept me 
from grievous sin, and made me long to see before I died 
this hallowed stable wherein my God once smiled on 
me.” 

Then did our blessed Lady sit beside the dying shepherd 
and sweetly tell him the life-story of her blessed Jesus, yea 
and the sweetly bitter history of His most sacred Passion 
and Death. Then did St. John take up his priestly office 
and assoil the soul of the pilgrim-shepherd, already dear 
to God. 

Midnight came, and at the Altar of the Crib stood the 
Beloved Apostle. Outside, the angels had already spread 
over the whole earth a houseling cloth of snow. Above in 
the clear sky, millions of taper-stars were ablaze for the 
Holy Rite. There was great music in Mary’s heart and in 
that of the priestly Apostle; but the night wind scarcely 
breathed its accompanying symphony. And when the 
Blessed Mother had made her Christmas Communion, the 
dying shepherd received his God in the Holy Eucharist for 
the first and the last time. 

♦ ♦ ii « * 


THE BETHLEHEM SHEPHERD-BOY. 


1 19 

Morning broke upon Our Lady still bowed in a rapture of 
prayer. Morning dawned upon the dead but smiling face of 
the pilgrim-shepherd. 

Sweeter than a prayer-bell for a saint in dying, 

Sweeter than a death-bell for a saint at rest, 

Music struck in Heaven with earth’s faint replying — 

“Life is good, and death is good, for Christ is best.” 


PURGATORY’S BENEFACTOR. 


Odilo belonged to an illustrious family. As a small boy 
he seems to have been paralysed in every limb, unable to 
walk or to move himself without help. One day when his 
family were changing their residence, he was given in charge 
of a nurse, and as she and her companions went to provide 
themselves with food, Odilo was left lying with their bag- 
gage before the door of a church. When they returned the 
child was missing. Greatly alarmed, they unsuccessfully 
searched the street in every direction. In their distress they 
entered the church to pray. There, to their utter amaze- 
ment, they found the child, hitherto unable even to stand 
upright, running about the nave completely cured. 

In telling the story in later years, the Saint used to relate 
how he had crawled into the church upon his hands and 
knees and then, impelled by an influence which he believed 
to be divine, had crept up to the altar and seized its em- 
broidered covering. For some time he tried to raise himself 
upon his feet, and at length, helped by the Mother of God, 
to whom the church was dedicated, and for whom he ever 
afterwards cherished a most ardent devotion, he found 
himself able not only to stand but to walk, and even to run. 

It is no wonder that as the boy grew older his thoughts 
turned to God with the kind of gratitude that leads to abid- 
ing love, and that he began to long to show his affection in 


PURGATORY’S BENEFACTOR. 


121 


some practical and lasting manner. He was now straight 
and sound of limb, very graceful in form and beautiful in 
countenance, and of very sweet and amiable disposition. 

When Saint meets Saint something very happy is likely 
to result, and the meeting of the boy Odilo with Ma joins, 
the holy and aged Abbot of Clugny, greatly strengthened 
the former’s resolution to serve our Lord in the religious 
state. Not long afterwards Odilo was received at Clugny as 
a novice. “Shorn of its worldly fleece,” says an ancient 
writer who was Odilo’s disciple, “how delightful it was to 
see this sheep rise again as from the fount of baptism! 
Wearing our habit, you might have seen him moving about 
with the flock, first in labour, last in place, seeking the 
meadows of everlasting verdure ; filling the lamps, sweeping 
the cloister floor, and undertaking every lowly office.” 

Before the Abbot, St. Ma joins, died, he chose Odilo as 
his successor. With all his soul the Saint shrank from such 
an office; but when he found himself unanimously elected 
by his brother monks, young as he was he did not dare 
refuse so great a burden. 

Even among the Saints it is hard to find a more perfect 
example of mercy and pity. He gave to the poor and the 
famine-stricken until his monks stood aghast at the prodi- 
gality of his charity; yet the revenues of the monastery 
never suffered. Once in time of famine, he sold the precious 
vessels of the church and the rich ornaments of the altar 
in order to feed the starving peasantry. The King of the 
Romans had given to the Abbey a costly crown of gold: 


122 


PURGATORY’S BENEFACTOR^ 


Odilo did not scruple to part with it in order to give bread 
to the hungry. The sight of two boys who had died of hun- 
ger lying naked by the road-side affected him deeply. 
Wrapping them in his habit he buried them with his own 
hands. 

Yet though he ever regarded the souls and bodies of men 
as the true treasures of the Church, he had a great love of 
religious art and a wonderful liking for all beautiful things. 
Even at this early period of its history, the Abbey Minster 
was adorned by him with rare marbles and precious metals. 
A wonderful tabernacle — ciboritim it was then called — was 
built by him, its columns covered with silver and inlaid with 
nigello. Down the Durance and into the Rhone he brought 
on rafts the huge marble columns that for so many 
centuries were the glory of Clugny. Truthfully he could 
say: “I found a church of wood: I left it a church of 
marble.” 

But the great claim of St. Odilo to the love and venera- 
tion of the Church Militant rests upon the beautiful and 
abiding work that he accomplished for the Church Suffering 
in Purgatory. In his own Abbey first of all, he appointed 
the morrow of the day of All Saints to be set apart for the 
commemoration of the departed. Little by little the day of 
All Souls was observed in all the houses of his order. With 
alms and prayers and the solemn offering of the Holy Sacri- 
fice this day was kept at Clugny and elsewhere from the 
year 998 — an observance which was soon adopted through- 
out the whole Church. 


PURGATORY’S BENEFACTOR. 


123 


It is characteristic of this gentle and pitiful Saint that 
his charity could not be bound by the limits of time and 
space. The world was not a big enough arena for the 
exercise of that mercy and loving kindness for which his 
whole life is conspicuous. Who shall estimate the relief 
afforded to the suffering souls by the action of this holy 
Abbot? For a thousand years the entire Church has devoted 
this one day in every year to special and particular inter- 
cession for the dead. Think of the multiplied prayers! 
Think of the millions of Masses offered to God on behalf of 
those who cannot merit for themselves — of the unnumbered 
alms and penances of holy men and women in every age! 
And all this vast benefaction set in motion in the Church 
that endures unto the end of time, by the zeal and pitifulness 
of one holy monk! 

St. Odilo died on New Year’s Day, 1049, at the age of 
eighty-seven. With special fitness we may apply to this 
great servant of God the words of Ecclesiasticus : When I 
was yet young, before I wandered about, I sought for wis- 
dom openly in my prayer. I prayed for her before the 
temple, and unto the very end I will seek after her. 


THE FINDING OF ST. FIRMIN. 


Saint Silvius through all one night 
Made vigil, and did earnest pray 
Christ would vouchsafe to give him light 
To know where Firmin's body lay. 

And on the morrow he made call 
Upon his flock to pray and fast — 

On all who dwelt within the wall 
Of Amiens at this time long past. 

Two days went by, and on the third 
God sent a beam of sunlight strong 
That pierced the wall which then did gird 
The garth where holy monks might throng. 

Full soon they ’gan to delve the soil. 

Full soon they digg’d a deepsome pit, 

And as they neared the holy spoil 
A wondrous perfume rose from it. 

So marvellous, so sweet a scent 
As though each flower and costly spice 
And rarest incense had been blent 
With all the airs of Paradise. 


THE FINDING OF ST. FIRMIN. 


125 


It filled the great cathedral aisles, 

It clung to men and to their gear, 

It filled the streets and lanes for miles, 

It reached to hamlets far and near. 

Drawn thither by that odour rare. 

Vast bands of pilgrims quickly came; 

Rich gifts and offerings they bare. 

With waxen tapers all aflame. 

The winter sun that looketh low 

From out the heavens, rose summer high; 

Pure dust became the frozen snow. 

And every way was white and dry. 

In grand possession passed the bier 
Through lane and alley, square and street : 

Fled pain and sickness wheresoe'er 
That saving perfume floated sweet. 

Pealed all the bells, Te Deum rang. 

As to his shrine the Saint they bore; 

Ten thousand hearts and voices sang 
^^Glory to Christ for evermore I" 


A HERO OF THE STABLES. 


It mattered nothing to Corbecan, the owner of many 
horses, that his new stable-boy was a Christian. All that 
the great horse-breeder needed was a boy who would drive 
the mares to pasture and take them where grew the richest 
herbage. Now young Severus knew that the first thing a 
good Catholic thinks of is to perform well the duties of his 
state — whether these duties be the care of souls or of bodies, 
of men or of animals. Like most regular work, this horse- 
tending had its pleasant and its unpleasant side. There 
were times when the beasts were troublesome and the 
weather was bad, and when Severus came home tired out 
with much running, and weary unto sleep with the labour of 
his charge. Yet there were sunny days when the great herd 
of mares gave little trouble, but fed quietly and peacefully 
wherever they were driven. 

Probably it had become a joke among the stable-lads that 
Severus found the pasture that lay near the little church 
of St. Martin the richest and best in all the country-side. 
Certainly he drove the animals in that direction very fre- 
quently — and by no means to their detriment. To be any- 
where within sight of that small Christian temple was a 
joy to him. For, young as he was, he had fallen in love with 
prayer. Sometimes he would pray with his face towards the 
church: sometimes he would kneel before the open door. 


A HERO OF THE STABLES. 


127 


Now and again when his knowledge of the ways of his 
horses assured him that they would not stray from the place 
where they were feeding, he would enter God’s house for a 
space and give himself to devotion. 

Remember who Severus was. He was a very poor boy 
and quite uneducated — except in the things that belonged to 
his soul. His clothing was of the coarsest, his food of the 
plainest. Born of Catholic parents at a time when in France 
and elsewhere heathenism was by no means stamped out, 
the boy took his religion seriously. He was no mere patterer 
of little prayers. Severus did not toy with holy things. He 
gave to God all the time that was at his disposal, and his 
devotion was anything but a merely external one. His duty 
to his earthly master brought him into the open air and into 
much solitude, but the care of the horses could not hinder 
his talk with God. Nothing could deprive the boy of the 
precious privilege of speaking constantly and lovingly to 
his Father in Heaven. 

Naturally enough the more Severus spoke to God the 
more he loved Him; the greater became his love for God 
the more this young boy began to show kindness and sym- 
pathy and good-feeling and real charity towards every 
creature he met. 

It seems to have been the boy’s practical goodness that 
first brought him into collision with his master. Being a 
pagan, Corbecan did not appreciate the active charity of a 
Christian. A rigorous winter fell upon this northwest 
corner of France and the sufferings of the poor were great. 


128 


A HERO OF THE STABLES. 


The heart of Severus was moved by the poverty he saw 
around him : yet what could a poor herd-laddie do to relieve 
the prevailing distress? His own parents needed the little 
money that he earned: with the exception of his clothes — 
probably a sheepskin, a leather tunic, a canvas shirt and a 
pair of sabots — ^he had nothing that he could call his own. 
The life of St. Martin, that holy Bishop of Tours to whom 
was dedicated the little church that Severus visited so often, 
was doubtless familiar to the lad, and he would call to mind 
the story of the half cloak given to the beggar by the Saint 
— then a boy-soldier scarcely older, perhaps, than the herd- 
lad himself. 

When the opportunity came Severus did not hesitate. 
Not only did he give away his sheepskin-cloak and his 
leather tunic, but the very shirt from his back and the 
wooden shoes that kept his naked feet from the snow. 
Nearly naked and shivering from the bitter cold, this young 
follower of Jesus Christ arrived one night at his employer’s 
castle. The conversation that took place between the boy 
and his master has not been handed down to us, but the 
result of it was that Corbecan flew into a great rage and 
drove Severus out of the house, forbidding him to seek 
shelter in it for the night. Not without thought of the little 
Babe in the manger the boy sought the stables and lay down 
among the beasts, thankful for the comparative warmth of 
so rude a chamber. 

As you read this are you saying to yourself that really the 
boy acted somewhat rashly, and that there was some excuse 


A HERO OF THE STABLES. 


129 


for his master’s anger? Wait a moment! Remember with 
whom you are dealing. Severus was not merely a good 
Catholic lad like many with whom you may have come in 
contact : he was a Saint. And a Saint is one of God’s in- 
timate friends — I had nearly written “one of God’s pets.” 
To a Saint God speaks very clearly and unmistakably, and 
His intimates may do — nay, they must do — many things 
that in us (who are alas! the mere acquaintances of God) 
would be rash and extravagant. 

The good God had a purpose in inspiring Severus to this 
and such-like actions — an immediate purpose and a remote 
one. The immediate purpose was the conversion of the 
pagan master and his entire household. Corbecan had at 
first been enraged : he was afterwards impressed. The lad’s 
extraordinary conduct made the man thoughtful. He began 
to see that the religion that could elevate and refine a poor 
country lad, and lead him to perform actions that were in 
the truest sense of the word heroic, was a religion worth 
studying. Great man as Corbecan was he did not disdain to 
talk to this herd-boy, and so, little by little, the beauty of 
Christianity was revealed to him. God’s Spirit touched him 
and he believed. There was the immediate result. The 
remote result was the sanctification of the lad himself. 

God had more work for Severus to do. Already the 
horse-boy had proved himself an apostle; already he had 
brought an entire family to Jesus. In this locality his 
mission was at an end, and like so many holy people of the 
period he longed to lead the life of a hermit. So he went to 


130 


A HERO OF THE STABLES. 


a lonely hut and held an almost uninterrupted conversation 
with his Lord. Disciples flocked to him, and after some 
years he was ordained priest. Then the bishopric of 
Avranches was forced upon him, and he ruled his diocese 
faithfully and devotedly. But he still pined for a hermit-life, 
and did all he could to obtain a successor to his see. At 
length he was able to lay down the crozier and to go back to 
his humble cell in the forest. In his holy retreat he died, and 
his body was carried to the Cathedral of Rouen. In France 
his feast is kept on the first day of February. 


A MINSTREL MONK. 


‘A WELL-STORED memory is like the work of the sagacious 
bees who, when the dewy dawn appears and the beams of the 
limpid sun arise, pour the thick armies of their dancing 
swarms over the open fields ; and, now lying in the honeyed 
leaves of the marigold or the purple tops of the heather, 
suck the nectar drop by drop, and carry home the plunder on 
burdened thighs/' 

Though not written in Anglo-Saxon, the above is from 
the pen of a scholar and a saint who is often called our first 
English author, and whose life, like that of many of his con- 
temporaries, is of great interest. 

Aldhelm was born about the year 635. He was of royal 
blood, being closely related to King Ina. He received his 
early education in the most famous school of the period, 
that of Adrian, the Abbot of Canterbury, an African by 
birth, and designed by Pope Vitalian to succeed St. Deus- 
dedit in the archiepiscopal see. Adrian had recommended 
Theodore as Archbishop of Canterbury, promising all the 
help in his power to this holy man, and, by the Pope's wish, 
becoming his companion, assistant, and adviser. 

The Pope's choice of an Archbishop was a most happy 
one. A native of St. Paul's city of Tarsus, Theodore was 
a famous Greek scholar, and a man of great sanctity. He 
brought with him to England a library of valuable books, 


132 


A MINSTREL MONK. 


and among them a copy of Homer — extant it is said in the 
days of the first Protestant intruder into the see of Canter- 
bury. Venerable Bede gives a delightful account of the 
joint labours of Archbishop Theodore and Abbot Adrian. 

Happy indeed were the people who lived under the shadow 
of these monasteries. Gladly too in this Golden Age of the 
Church in England did many flock to the solemn offering 
of Holy Mass, to the singing of the Divine Office, to the 
hearing of sermons. Yet, just as in these days, there were 
some careless people who refused the things that belonged 
to their peace, and who bargained with Almighty God for the 
least possible return to His unspeakable love. They were 
thoughtless folk who imagined that they could live on bread 
alone, and that they had no need of the sermons preached 
by holy monks in the abbey minster. Some kinds of igno- 
rance may indeed be bliss — ignorance of evil, for example : 
to be ignorant of the things that affect our eternal destiny is 
supreme folly. 

As in many similar instances, there would have been no 
town of Malmesbury at all but for the foundation of Aid- 
helm and Maildulf. To-day there are six bridges over the 
river : in the time of St. Aldhelm there was at least one — 
probably built by the monks. And about this bridge did 
the idlers congregate. 

It happened on a day that something unexpected and 
highly attractive increased the crowd upon and about the 
bridge. Perhaps it was in the spring-time when the 
meadows about Malmesbury were gay with flowers and 


A MINSTREL MONK. 


133 


fruit-blossom: it may have been in the height of summer 
when wild roses covered the hedges, and the banks of the 
Avon were cool and inviting. Itinerant musicians were not 
unknown to these primitive folk. The Saxon glecmen were 
already honoured personages, and certainly our rude fore- 
fathers were themselves by no means unlearned in the art of 
singing and of playing upon the harp. It is indeed not im- 
probable that the farm servant of Saxon times was in many 
respects a more cultured person than the labourer of to-day 
— albeit the latter can both read and write. Some Saxon 
peasants could not only sing and play, but they could make 
their own songs and stories ; they could improvise on a given 
theme and, like many of the Italian and Irish peasantry of 
our own time, sing and recite whole cantos of epic poetry or 
romantic prose. 

On this particular Sunday the Malmesbury idlers heard a 
gleeman of Vv^orth. Harp in hand, St. Aldhelm sat disguised 
upon the bridge and chanted the music that they loved. 
Time passed quickly: it was a holiday, and the people were 
well content to linger. The minstrel was in no hurry, and 
his songs and stories seemed inexhaustible. He began by 
giving them what they knew; but almost before they were 
aware of it he rose to higher themes, holding them spell- 
bound as he sang of Life and Death, of Heaven and Hell, 
of the Incarnation and the Atonement, of Mary and the 
Saints. 

Underneath, the River Avon rippled its soft accompani- 
ment, and still the minstrel sang of all things bright and 


134 


A MINSTREL MONK. 


beautiful — chiefly of all that makes for the peace of the 
soul. The people stood gazing — now at the inspired min- 
strel whose hooded face they could scarcely see, and now 
at the 

Illimitable space and pause of sky, 

Intense as angels’ garments blanched with God, 

Less blue than radiant. 

Who could the singer be? No itinerant gleeman this : no 
Saxon son of the soil famous above his fellows for the gift 
of song. Here was a minstrel with a method, a Saxon like 
themselves but a veritable Apostle of music. His hearers 
could almost fancy themselves in the abbey minster listening 
to the preaching of the eloquent young monk Aldhelm — of 
whose sermon that very day their indolence had robbed 
them. They pressed about him trying to penetrate the 
depths of his big hood that they might scan his features. 
Very soon he uncovered his head. 

His face was pale, but not with fear nor pain; 

His hands still held the harp: they heard his voice 
Come ringing with a new majestic strain 
Rememberable music: through the rain 
Of tears they saw across the water plain 
His eyes were toward the Heaven of his choice. 

This apostolic gleeman was a Greek scholar, and he may 
have remembered his Pindar: “Awake for them the clear- 
toned gale of song, and if old wine be best, yet among songs 
prefer the newer flowers.'' His theme was the oldest in the 
world — God, and the love of God; his methods were new. 
In the language of the people, he sang; in the Anglo-Saxon 


A MINSTREL MONK. 


135 


that he loved, he chanted the history of Creation and the 
story of the Fall. Ever old and ever new was the burden 
of his recitative. Fresh were the flowers of poesy that 
adorned it; new indeed was his mode of instructing the 
ignorant and of winning his hearers' hearts. 

It seems certain that they had further opportunities of 
listening to his stream of sacred song. At the bridge, and 
at the cross-roads, in his true character of minstrel-monk 
and apostolic preacher Aldhelm sang to them ; but when the 
crowd increased he preached with much directness and 
vigour. He was no mere tickler of ears, and when the 
ripple of his harp was heard on the high-road, the people 
soon came to regard the music as a prelude to the preaching 
of the Gospel. 

A singularly winning and lovable person was this Ald- 
helm ; a scholar who won the esteem of his saintly masters, 
a master who inspired the veneration of his pupils. A man 
of striking and handsome appearance, as we learn from a 
Latin poem addressed to him by his scholar Ethilwald: a 
monk of notable stature, active of body and limb, “his head 
shining with snowy locks, his eyes beaming clear as the 
stars in the glistening heavens." 

Aldhelm was a scholar and a ripe one: above all he was 
a poet. It is sad that no specimen of his vernacular verse 
has come down to us: probably much of it was never put 
on paper. Yet it remained for centuries in the memory of 
the people for whom it was composed. But we possess 
some of his Latin works — his Praise of Virginity, in prose 


<36 


A MINSTREL MONK. 


and verse, his Enigmata and shorter poems, and a few of 
his letters. Among his lost books is a translation of the 
Psalter into English verse. An Anglo-Saxon version of the 
Psalms discovered some years ago in Paris is said to be 
based on St. Aldhelm’s translation. 

Though he lived a life of great holiness and died a saint, 
Aldhelm was not without faults of character. He himself 
owed so much to his Irish master, Maildulf, that we cannot 
excuse the spleen, not unmixed with a little jealousy, with 
which he speaks of the renown of the Irish Schools. He 
complains of the crowds of students who flocked over to 
Ireland to take advantage of its world-famed professors. 
One may sympathise with him over the loss of some of his 
favourite pupils, and we can understand the affection that he 
had for his own school of Canterbury. Doubtless he was 
right in saying that '‘if Ireland had its stars, England had 
its sun in Theodore, and its mild moon in Adrian, gifted 
with inexpressible urbanity.” St. Theodore was Archbishop 
of Canterbury, and St. Adrian was Aldhelm’s old master 
and Abbot of Canterbury. But we doubt not that he was 
afterwards sorry for likening Theodore among the Irish to 
“a furious wild boar surrounded by dogs, showing his 
teeth and driving them away by his skill in syllogisms and 
grammatical subtleties.” 

Always a good man, though sometimes impetuous, was 
Aldhelm — knowing exactly what he wanted and determined 
to have it if it would bring advantage to the souls of others. 
A man of intense energy, not satisfied with the building of 


A MINSTREL MONK. 


137 


his own important abbey, but founding other houses and 
communities, and erecting churches for the people. Not 
only was he the first Englishman to publish books, but he 
was the inventor and maker of the first church organ ever 
heard in our island. By his writings, Venerable Bede tells 
us, he brought large numbers of the Britons to conform to 
Catholic ways, not only in the keeping of Easter, but in re- 
gard to many other points of faith and practice. Even in his 
lifetime miracles were not wanting: after his death they 
were numerous. 

Aldhelm had been thirty years Abbot, and was sixty-five 
years old when he was consecrated Bishop of Sherborne. 
His energy was still extraordinary. No part of his diocese 
was left unvisited by him, and he is said to have preached to 
the people “night and day.” By prayer and fasting he 
offered sacred violence to Heaven on behalf of himself and 
the flock committed to his charge. Yet his interest in 
literature was unabated, his eagerness to obtain books as 
great as ever. What that eagerness was may be gathered 
from the following amusing story. 

When in his sixty-fifth year he was appointed Bishop, 
Aldhelm journeyed to Canterbury to be consecrated by his 
old school-fellow, Bretwald, who had then succeeded St. 
Theodore as Archbishop. A report reached Aldhelm that 
a foreign ship laden with goods had just arrived at Dover. 
Away went the newly consecrated Bishop Aldhelm — merely 
on the chance of finding hooks among the merchandise. Ele 
was rewarded. Not only was there a heap of parchments. 


138 


A MINSTREL MONK. 


but an entire Bible — a treasure of the first order when we 
remember that at this time every word was written by hand. 
God’s Book at least he would secure; but its owners knew 
its value. Aldhelm thought them rapacious; when he told 
them so, they became abusive. Refusing all offers, the 
sailors put the Bible back into their boat and rowed off to 
the ship. No sooner had they climbed on board than a big 
storm came on. In the distance they could see Aldhelm at 
his prayers. So great was the tempest that for some time 
they feared that their vessel would be dashed upon the rocks, 
and their ultimate deliverance from shipwreck they un- 
hesitatingly ascribed to the holy man’s intercession. Hasten- 
ing ashore as soon as they could leave the ship, they begged 
him to accept the Bible as a gift. Aldhelm would not do 
this; but giving them one-half of what he had originally 
offered, he joyfully carried off his treasure. 

Aldhelm died in Somersetshire at the age of seventy, 
having ruled his see for five years. His body was brought 
for burial to the noble abbey he had planned and built at 
Malmesbury, and over which he had ruled as Abbot for 
thirty years. He is an example, says a non-Catholic writer, 
“of the strong influence of the monastic life and the 
monastic ideal upon the society of the English folk. It was 
from the tradition, and the following, of such men as Ald- 
helm that kings and statesmen learnt, like Alfred, to give 
half their income and half their time to God/* 


AN ANGELIC CHRISTMAS DINNER. 


We can easily understand why the Archbishop of Palermo 
had come to keep the feast of Christmas with the Friars 
Minor. To every Catholic heart this sacred tide is dear be- 
yond all words; but to whom is it dearer and sweeter than 
to the sons of St. Francis? By whom was the Infant Jesus 
more tenderly and devotedly loved than by the Saint of 
Assisi? What Religious Order has done more to promote 
the worship of Mary's Babe than the Franciscan? Do we 
not owe to it the devotion of the Crib? Was it not on 
Christmas night that the Seraphic Saint enjoyed his sweetest 
raptures and his most wonderful ecstasies? 

“The thoughts and affections of this true lover of Christ 
centred on the Crib, the Cross, and the Tabernacle. Christ- 
mas, above all other feasts, captivated his heart. Tf ever 
I speak to the Emperor,' Francis once said, T will beseech 
him to decree for the love of God and of me, a poor little 
one, that every year, on Christmas Day, the magistrates and 
the lords of the manor cause wheat and other seeds to be 
spread on the highways outside the towns, boroughs, and 
villages for the birds, and especially our sisters the larks: 
that, moreover, out of reverence for the Son of God, to 
whom, on Christmas night, the ever Blessed Virgin Mary 
gave birth in a stable between an ox and an ass, every owner 
of an ox and an ass be bound to provide these animals with 


140 


AN ANGELIC CHRISTMAS DINNER. 


a generous supply of good provender/ If it was Francis’s 
wish that the birds of the air and the beasts of the field 
should participate in the joys of Christmas, much more 
was it his desire that men should rejoice and be glad; on 
that day the rich were to supply the poor with excellent and 
plentiful rations, and all men, rich and poor alike, were to 
exult in God their Saviour/’ 

To foster his own devotion, then, the good Archbishop 
had come and, it may very well be — seeing that this par- 
ticular house was noted for its poverty — to take care that 
the friars had the wherewithal to keep so great a feast befit- 
tingly. For his Grace did not come empty-handed. Greatly 
to the delight and gratitude of Brother Benedict the cook, 
plentiful store of flesh and wine, of fruit and vege- 
tables, had been brought to the convent kitchen by the Arch- 
bishop’s servants. 

Came Midnight Mass with its lovely accompaniments and 
associations, with the piercing sweetness of the Angels’ 
Hymn and all the raptures of what St. Francis himself has 
called the “Delicious Night.” 

During the whole of the solemn rite. Brother Benedict 
the cook remained lost in God. Even when the last altar- 
light was extinguished and the friars had left both altar and 
choir, this holy lay-brother continued his prayer. 

Came the Mass of the Aurora, and Brother Benedict had 
not risen from his knees ; but it was only when the time had 
arrived for the Grand Mass of Christmas morning that 
Father Ambrose, the Vicar of the convent, discovered that 


AN ANGELIC CHRISTMAS DINNER. 141 

the cook was missing. Dinner was to follow this last Mass, 
and as yet the kitchen fire was unlighted and nothing was in 
preparation for the meal. 

Search was made everywhere for the missing Brother, 
but he could nowhere be found. What a disgrace to the 
house ! What a story to tell the Archbishop whose kindness 
had been thus abused ! 

However, whether dinner was prepared or not, nothing 
could delay the High Mass. It was proceeding in due and 
solemn form when, in swinging his censer, the thurifer 
accidentally lengthened the chain and allowed the thurible 
to strike against one of the hangings of the sanctuary. 
Although he knew that the curtain was far enough away 
from the wall, to his amazement he perceived that the censer 
had bounded off from some hard object behind the hanging. 
As soon as he could leave the altar the thurifer looked 
behind the tapestry. There, completely lost in devotion and 
looking like a man in a trance, was the missing cook! 

The thurifer shook him and told him that the Father Vicar 
had sought for him everywhere. But the Brother would 
not, or could not, move. Making a sign to the server to 
keep silent, Benedict remained in prayer until the end of 
Mass. Then he went to the kitchen intending to light the fire. 

In a great hurry the Father Vicar followed him. Brother 
Benedict was again on his knees in the kitchen, completely 
absorbed in prayer. The Father shook him, but it was some 
time before the saintly Brother came to himself. 

There was now a rush of friars to the kitchen, and. 


142 


AN ANGELIC CHRISTMAS DINNER. 


naturally enough, some of them were inclined to scold the 
ecstatic cook. 

“Ring the bell for dinner, dear Brothers, ring the bell,” 
was the holy man’s only reply. “You will find everything 
ready in the refectory.” 

“But you have not even lighted the fire!” exclaimed the 
Father Vicar; “how can you say that everything is ready?” 

“The Lord will not forsake us,” replied the cook. 

Meanwhile, the Archbishop himself and the whole com- 
munity had crowded to the kitchen. And now the Lord 
opened their eyes, and they saw young men and boys in 
white garments busily preparing the Christmas repast. 

Again did the cook beg his religious brethren to betake 
themselves to the refectory: they did so, and the food that 
had been exquisitely prepared by angels was now graciously 
served by these ambassadors of God. 

No more striking picture is to be found in the Louvre 
than Murillo’s wonderful representation of the Angels in 
the kitchen. In a mere black and white reproduction we 
sadly miss the glowing" colours — the lovely hue of the 
vegetables and fruits, the burnish of the copper pans and 
kettles, the red-glow of the kitchen fire, the tints of the 
earthenware plates and jugs. But we see the beautifully 
naive treatment of a singularly beautiful legend. We see 
the serious, business-like aspect of the older angels — the 
vigour of the heavenly boy using pestle and mortar in the 
preparation of some savoury sauce — the half-humorous 
earnestness of the child-angels as they select the vegetables 


AN ANGELIC CHRISTMAS DINNER. 


143 


for the coming meal. We see enough to prove to us that 
the picture was painted with a loving as well as a masterly 
hand, and that it is the work of a truly Catholic artist who 
thoroughly appreciated the legend of St. Benedict of the 
Friars Minor, and transferred not a little of its freshness 
and simplicity to a canvas that renders it, artistically speak- 
ing, immortal. 


THE HOLY CHILD AND ST. TERESA. 


Teresa, Mother of Mount Carmel’s fold, 

The Shepherdess of souls contemplative, 

Bless’d dweller in the Castle’s inner hold. 

Mother of maids who in God’s bosom live : 

Teresa passing through her cloister bare, 

Wrapt in the thought of Mary’s Lord and Son, 

Pauses asudden. Why yon white-gold glare, 

Since day to noontide hath but barely run? 

And who this Child of beauty rare and sweet 
That o’er the rugged pavement softly glides. 

With ivory limbs and shining, snow'y feet. 

Who turns not as she nears, nor from her hides? 

‘‘Say, comely Child, with Seraph-splendour decked. 

And light of glory round thy royal brow, 

Thy milk-pure features all with rose-bloom flecked — 

Say whence hast thou appeared ? And who art thou ?” 

“But who art thou?” the Boy’s soft question fell. 
“Teresa, I, of Jesus,” doth she cry: 

Then He with music all unspeakable 
Replied, “And Jesus of Teresa, 1.” 


A HAUNTED STUDENT. 


^‘Whatever a nation has that is most precious, whatever 
a people has most famous, all the treasures of science and all 
the riches of the earth ; lessons of wisdom, the glory of let- 
ters, nobility of thought, refinement of manners — all this is 
to be found in Paris. 

No university in the world ever created such enthusiasm 
as that of Paris in the Middle Ages. Gregory IX. called it 
the City of Letters, which drew to itself the intellectual 
wealth of Christendom. ‘‘No one, whatever might be his 
country, could pretend to any consideration who had not 
studied there in his youth; if you met a priest or doctor 
whose skill in letters you desired to praise, it was enough to 
say, ‘One would think he had passed his whole life in 
Paris.’ ” 

Parisian students were everywhere held in honour, and 
the special privileges bestowed upon them by kings were 
numerous and extraordinary. They had more than the 
rights of citizenship, for their goods could never be seized 
for debt, they paid no taxes, they could demand horse hire 
at reasonable rate, and no artificer or tradesman was per- 
mitted to annoy them with unpleasant noises or odours. In 
point of numbers they not unfrequently exceeded the citizens. 

Even as late as the sixteenth century, when other uni- 
versities had succeeded in making for themsdves some little 


146 


A HAUNTED STUDENT. 


reputation, we are told that Paris could boast of from twelve 
to sixteen thousand students. By this time colleges had been 
built, and their number was so considerable that one his- 
torian ventures only to describe some ^^forty of the prin- 
cipal ones.” The whole of the city on the south side of the 
Seine was given up to the University. 

The sixteenth century may be described as the Age of 
Novelties ; yet it is the glory of Spain that heresy could find 
no footing in her universities. The same cannot be said of 
Paris. Men from every nation under heaven still flocked to 
her schools : the heresiarch and the orthodox sat side by side. 
St. Ignatius, who went to Paris in the February of 1528, 
studied the classics at the College Montaigu whose benches 
John Calvin had only lately vacated. Nearly a year passed 
before Ignatius entered the College of St. Barbara, where he 
was not only to begin the study of philosophy and to exercise 
an enormous influence upon several chosen souls, but to 
form the nucleus of that Society of Jesus which was destined 
to check the ravages of heresy and schism. It is with his 
influence upon one particular soul that we wish particularly 
to deal. 

Ignatius was in his thirty-eighth year when he en- 
tered the College of St. Barbara and became acquainted with 
Francis Xavier and Peter Faber. The former was a Span- 
iard of noble and ancient family ; Peter was a Savoyard and 
the son of a small peasant farmer. Francis was fifteen years 
younger than Ignatius, and though they were fellow- 
countrymen, and of the same rank, they did not immediately 


'A HAUNTED STUDENT. 


W 


become close friends. But for the brilliant and simple 
Savoyard, Ignatius conceived a great reverence. A union 
of rare and lovable qualities was found in Peter Faber, and 
though the three men shared the same room at St. Barbara’s, 
Ignatius’ friendship was at first with Peter rather than with 
the handsome and clever young Spaniard. 

Until the age of ten, Peter had (like so many boys who 
were destined to do great things in the world) kept his 
father’s sheep. He had always been good and pious, and 
when he began to show a great thirst for knowledge his 
parents sent him to a Savoyard master whose holiness was 
on a par with his learning. Peter spent two years with this 
holy man, who had a way of making the profane authors 
speak the language of the Gospel. At the age of twelve the 
boy consecrated himself to God by a special vow, and some 
years later his parents sent him to the University of Paris. 

Unlike Augustine at Carthage, Peter found his studies 
a great help in overcoming temptation ; for though he soon 
began to distinguish himself, and quickly became the favour- 
ite pupil of his famous master, he applied himself to phi- 
losophy that he might the better advance God’s glory, and 
not merely to win for himself name and fame. He soon be- 
gan to appreciate the sanctity of Ignatius, and as the latter 
had been told to repeat the lectures with his friend, the two 
holy men had abundant opportunities for conversation on 
spiritual things. 

It must not be supposed that Francis Xavier held aloof 
cither from his old friend Peter Faber, or from his new 


148 


A HAUNTED STUDENT. 


room-mate Ignatius. In the Paris of that time vice was 
common enough. Francis had no share in it. His life had 
been a singularly pure one. ‘^None more innocent, none 
more pleasant, none more affable than he,’’ says Turselline. 
*^He was beloved of all, both at home and abroad. His 
chastity, as is the nature thereof, sharpened his wit, and 
prepared his mind as a most pure soil to receive the seeds of 
wisdom.” But he was ambitious. When St. Ignatius ar- 
rived in Paris, Francis had already been four years at the 
University, was well known and highly distinguished. “He 
had the desire of honour, and was of a high and lofty spirit. 
He enjoyed his great reputation and success, and if he had 
been less of a Christian his pride would have mastered him. 
As it was, he kept it in check, though doubtless much was 
wanting, in the perfection of his humility. He had not con- 
quered in his heart the high thoughts of opening manhood 
and the native haughtiness of his race.” He wished to be a 
great professor of philosophy, a distinguished theologian, 
possibly a renowned prelate. 

There was something , about Ignatius that displeased 
Francis. He had doubtless read the Lives of the Saints: 
perhaps he had never before been brought into contact with 
a living example of sanctity — though his old friend and 
companion, Peter Faber, certainly deserved that title. But 
Francis could not at first understand his countryman’s 
methods. Ignatius was a Spanish gentleman: yet he lived 
meanly and upon alms. Moreover, good and pious as 
Francis had always been, he had made no special study of 


A HAUNTED STUDENT. 


149 


the Science of the Saints, and did not aspire to the State of 
Perfection. 

Eagerly did Peter Faber listen to St. Ignatius : willingly 
did the young philosopher become the spiritual pupil of a 
man who was only just beginning the study of philosophy. 
Tormented with scruples and temptations, Peter opened his 
whole mind to Ignatius and began to adopt some of his 
methods. 

Meanwhile, Francis Xavier took his degree of Master 
of Arts and began to teach philosophy. With wonderful 
patience and kindness St. Ignatius lay in wait for his soul. 
There were possibilities in this brilliant young professor, 
and though he shrank somewhat from Ignatius, the latter 
was not discouraged. He had in fact already sown seed in 
the good heart of Francis — seed that was destined to spring 
up and bear fruit a hundred-fold. Francis began to be 
haunted by a single passage of God's Word — a sentence 
uttered by Jesus Christ: What shall it proht a man if he 
gain the whole world, and suffer the loss of his own 
soul? 

More than once perhaps did Ignatius whisper these 
moving words into the ear of Francis Xavier. He was 
lecturing now with the greatest applause and success ; noth- 
ing could drown the cadence of this Gospel warning. No 
other direct attack did St. Ignatius make upon him ; he went 
about praising him and trying to increase the number of his 
pupils. Already Ignatius had lent him money, and that 
Francis should accept it is a proof that his pride was not of 


150 


A HAUNTED STUDENT. 


the detestable kind which declines to receive a favour. It 
is also a proof that the foundations of a friendship 
between these two very opposite characters had already been 
laid. 

Prayer and good conversation were the two weapons of 
St. Ignatius at this time, and both were used by him with 
telling effect. So great was the influence he exercised upon 
his fellow-students that the enemies of religion became 
alarmed. Already he had detected the spread of heretical 
notions at St. Barbara's: already he had warned Francis 
Xavier of the tendency of certain opinions. 

By sheer misrepresentation the authorities of the College 
were urged to disgrace Ignatius publicly and to dismiss him. 
His spiritual conversation, said his detractors, interfered 
with the young men's studies. Professors easily took alarm, 
and at length the Rector of the College lent an ear to 
Ignatius' enemies. The ceremony was a little like a 
regimental “drumming out." At the sound of the bell 
masters and students assembled in the public hall. “The 
masters held rods in th'eir hands," says one account, “and 
with these they touched the shoulders of the culprit, who 
was considered ever afterwards as a person to be shunned 
and avoided." 

But this lover of God and of his brethren was not des- 
tined to suffer so great an indignity. Ignatius went to the 
Rector and humbly pointed out to him how great would be 
the scandal if he publicly punished one whose only crime had 
been an attempt to make others more pleasing to God. His 


A HAUNTED STUDENT. 


151 

simple plea made a great impression upon the Superior. 
Leading Ignatius into the hall where the students were 
already assembled, the Rector fell upon his knees and begged 
pardon for his error. Then in the hearing of all he spoke 
at some length upon the sanctity of the accused, and bore 
honourable witness to his virtues. 

This remarkable event had its effect upon Francis Xavier. 
Still haunted by the words. What shall it profit ... he began 
to see that the despised and misunderstood Ignatius was 
indeed a Saint of God. Not without a struggle did the 
learned and eloquent and applause-loving Professor yield: 
not without the exercise of consummate patience and tact 
did Ignatius win him to the higher life. But once he found 
himself on the side of the Saints — who so thorough, so 
generous, or so enthusiastic as Francis? Happily, we have 
the testimony of his own written words. In a long letter 
written to his eldest brother — a letter carried by St. Ignatius 
himself on a visit to Spain — we have the following : 

But that you, my lord and elder brother, so worthy of my 
tenderest reverence, may understand clearly what a signal 
grace of God our Lord it has been for me to have for a 
friend a man so perfect as Master Don Ignatius, I hereby 
solemnly declare, as if this was a duly signed document, 
certified with all the sacred obligations of an oath, that the 
services which this friend has rendered me infinitely out- 
weigh all that the most devoted gratitude from me during 
the course of my whole life could either repay or answer to, 
even in part. 


152 


A HAUNTED STUDENT. 


For, in the first place, in the serious private inconvenience 
which the distance that separates me from you has often 
occasioned, he has always come opportunely to my aid, both 
by putting at my disposal the funds which I needed, and by 
assisting me in a thousand other ways, either by his own 
means or by the intervention of his friends. And, in the 
second place, which is of infinite greater importance, he has 
preserved the thoughtlessness of my youth from the deadly 
danger of forming friendships with men strongly inclined 
to heresy, numbers of whom are to be met with in the 
present day in this University of Paris ; persons of my own 
age, who craftily hid under the specious veil of attractive 
gifts of cultivation and talent their corruption as to faith 
and as to morals. Ignatius alone has preserved my too 
yielding inexperience from engaging myself in these per- 
nicious friendships, by showing me the mischief of wiles of 
which I was quite ignorant. So great was the evil from 
which I was saved by the kindness of his, that I should 
never have thought the whole world too dear a price to pay 
for such deliverance if it had been in my power to pay it. 
And were this the only good that Master Don Ignatius has 
done me, it would still be of such a kind that I do not know 
how or when I could repay it worthily, or be grateful for it. 
For certainly, but for his intervention, I should never have 
escaped falling into intimacy with these young men, good in 
outward appearance, but inwardly corrupted with vice and 
heresy, as their own deeds and the event afterwards made 
clear. 


A HAUNTED STUDENT. 


IS3 

The after-career of this text-haunted student is well 
known. He became one of the greatest of God’s Saints. 
Europe was not wide enough for his zeal, and he who at 
one time never dreamed of leaving his beloved Paris and 
the applause of her lecture-halls, carried the Gospel to Hin- 
dustan, to Malacca, and to Japan. In every sense of the 
word he was a Wonder-Worker. For twelve years he 
laboured incessantly, without change, without repose, on the 
scantiest food — lacking indeed everything that makes life 
tolerable to the average man. Few labourers ever won such 
a harvest of souls as Francis Xavier: never, perhaps, did a 
man exact so much from himself. No wonder the gift of 
miracles was granted to him and that he raised the dead to 
life. 

But in this brief sketch of his earlier life what we partic- 
ularly desire to draw attention to is the fact that he was not 
born a Saint. Though there is nothing to show that at any 
period of his youth he fell into vicious habits, it is clear that 
in his student days and afterwards he was very faulty and 
far removed from anything approaching sanctity. Like so 
many who afterwards became holy, he entered into himself 
seriously, weighed the things of Time with those of Eternity, 
saw the hideousness of his besetting sin of pride and — de- 
termined to correct it. The good God offered Francis a big 
grace; he accepted it, and going from strength to strength, 
from grace to grace, reached one of the topmost peaks of 
sanctity. 


THE RIDDLE OF THE SHIELD. 


It was a goodly cloister of stone in which they walked, the 
Father Benedict and his little crowd of singing-lads. Serv- 
ing many purposes, parts of it being reserved solely to the 
use of the monks, it was ever a happy shelter from the heavy 
rains, and was in itself a noble book wherein the thoughtful 
might read and study. 

For not only had the monk-architect made its vaulted roof 
alive with meaning, but the carving of its bosses and the 
wonderful traceries of its windows were objects of beauty 
of which the trained eye did not easily weary. 

And since that skilled artist. Brother Cuthbert, had 
painted on glass a series of wonderful pictures, and the 
whilom empty casements had been filled with panes of splen- 
did colour, the boys were fain to linger and marvel, and 
forget their games, and to ask a thousand questions of the 
Father-Master of the Singing-School. 

The shields of Arthur’s Knights — so much knew each 
one of them. Little by little they were beginning to learn 
the names of the knights by whom the shields had been 
carried. And, as may well be understood, this led to a 
hundred questions concerning the knights themselves, and 
the valiant deeds performed by those who were said to have 
lived in Arthur’s hall. 

Fortunately for the boys. Father Benedict knew the 


THE RIDDLE OF THE SHIELD. 


I5S 

ancient legends well : yet in course of time even his vast 
knowledge was exhausted and he could no longer answer 
all the questions that his young charges continued to put to 
him. Indeed he had to admit sorrowfully that the only 
copy of the Arthurian history the abbey library contained 
was sadly incomplete, and that though Brother Cuthbert 
had taught him the names of all the Knights here repre- 
sented by their shields, he could not for lack of detail narrate 
the fortunes of many of them. 

'‘But,'’ said the smiling Father one day to his band of 
boys, “I marvel much that you have not asked me more 
about the meaning of the devices upon the shields. There, 
my sons, you have matter for much meditation and specu- 
lation. Let each of you try to read me the riddle of a single 
shield. To each it may have a different meaning. This 
afternoon you shall all receive a small strip of parchment, 
and during school-time you may write for me your own 
understanding of the shields of the Knights of Seven Ways. 
And if so be that each of you brings a different version,” 
smiled the Father-Master, "that will be the more interest- 
ing to us all. At our recreation after collation we will have 
them read aloud.” 

Many times that afternoon Father Benedict smiled upon, 
and silently blessed, the boys as they pursued their pleasant 
and unaccustomed task. Never had he seen his scholars 
more entirely absorbed. Not once had he to call one of 
them to order : not once had he to use his rod. 


156 THE RIDDLE OF THE SHIELD. 

Some of them had never before put pen to parchment, for 
though all could write upon tablets with a style, few of them 
excelled in the use of ink. Just then, parchment was a most 
precious commodity, and Father Benedict had had much 
ado to beg these narrow slips — mere cuttings from the desks 
of the scriptors. 

Not a sound was to be heard in the cloister save the fall- 
ing of the rain outside, and the scratching of quills upon 
parchment. Wonderful were the contortions that some of 
the lads made as they guided the pen up and down, labouring 
to express the thought that was within them. Heads moved 
from side to side — tongues protruded from red lips — inky 
fingers were rubbed upon flaxen hair — all manner of strange 
bodily attitudes were taken up by these strenuous young 
scribes. 

Very slowly did most of them write, taking long intervals 
for thought : sometimes so long that Father Benedict feared 
the writer might fall asleep over a task unfinished. Yet ever 
would the bowed head raise itself and its owner fall a-writ- 
ing: always the brown hand would release the white fore- 
head that rested upon it. 

When the bell tolled for Nones, at least a dozen of the 
lads looked up smilingly at their master. Ruefully the rest 
surveyed unfinished work. 

There was a merry buzz of talk as the lads trooped to 
their common-room after supper. Rumour had it that the 
Precentor himself was coming to listen to the compositions 
of the afternoon. Some boys had received very small strips 


THE RIDDLE OF THE SHIELD. 


157 


of parchment, and had tried to make their writing cor- 
respondingly small. Some had covered both sides of 
the vellum with thick black letters. All had written 
something. 

To the delight of the young authors not only did Father 
Precentor make his appearance, but the Sub-Prior also, and 
when the good monks were seated Father Benedict sur- 
veyed his boys with a happy smile. Then he told them how 
pleased he had been to see every lad trying to write some- 
thing. ^‘For,” said he, “the task I set you was no easy 
one for boys of your age. Therefore let none of you be 
ashamed of an unfinished theme, or of the scantiness of the 
lines he may have written.'^ 

Among the boys was one named Patrick. He was a dark 
merry lad with a swarthy skin and coal-black hair. His 
eyes were bold and of midnight blue. To him did the good 
priest turn first. 

“Now, my Patrick, read on, for I perceive that your 
parchment is full. Read for us the riddle of the shield.’' 

“Good Father,” read the lad without hesitation, “the 
silver river is an emblem of life. It flows always, and 'tis 
truly silver in the sunlight. 'Tis spanned by a golden 
bridge of knightly fame. For just as the building of a 
bridge is a true victory over deep waters and makes it full 
easy for the wayfarer to cross, however angry the stream, 
so doughty deeds of knighthood overcome the rough places 
of life and win for the victor golden fame.” 

Admiringly the boys gazed at Patrick, some of them per- 


THE RIDDLE OF THE SHIELD. 


iS8 

haps a little enviously. Father Benedict smiled his thanks 
and approval and turned to a gentle-looking lad with pale 
gold locks and light blue eyes from which shone both merri- 
ment and timidity. In a low, shy voice he read : 

think the silver river is man’s soul, and that it flows 
and flows until it reaches the big sea. And the golden bridge 
that crosses it is the one glorious day in his life — the day 
upon which the favour of Heaven casts its sweet shadow 
upon his soul. Every boy, at least every man, has one such 
golden day. For some it is the day when they kneel to 
receive their knightly order. For others it is the morning 
when they first touch the Chalice of God.” 

“Excellent!” exclaimed the kindly monk. “Excellent, 
my Cuthbert. And now, Dunstan,” he went on, turning to 
a stout, muscular lad with reddish hair, and a thoughtful 
good-humoured face. 

“The silver river,” began Dunstan, “is the Sacrament of 
Penance. It is always flowing. It washes and cleanses and 
strengthens all who bathe in it. It is for those who live 
long, yet may not ever be so clean as God longs for them 
to be. So they must wash in the river of Penance often and 
well. But there is a shorter way to Heaven than by this 
cleansing river. Little ones who die soon after Baptism 
pass over the golden bridge that binds earth to Paradise. 
This journey is very short and safe, and though we do not 
see them the angels are ever waiting on the bridge to carry 
the little Innocents to the Garden of God.” 

The boy stopped abruptly and the priest looked glad at 


THE RIDDLE OF THE SHIELD. 


159 


heart. But tears were in the lad's eyes, for he had lately 
lost a well-loved little brother. 

“And now, Oswald," said the monk pointing to a some- 
what sad-looking boy with pinched features but eloquent 
eyes. 

“The river is Death," began Oswald. “It never ceases 
to flow. It is bearing the souls of men into eternity. But 
God hath built across it seven bridges of gold. In the shield 
we see but one; in reality there are seven, and that is why 
the Knight of the Seven Ways chose that emblem for his 
shield. They are the bridges of the Seven Sacraments. Not 
all of us may cross each bridge, but at one time of life or 
another we pass over at least two of them — once. The 
bridges of Baptism and Confirmation we never recross. 
They too who gain the bridge of Holy Orders pass over it 
once and for all. The bridge of the Last Anointing we may 
reach more than once or twice. The bridges of Penance 
and the Holy Eucharist we must use as often as our Father 
Confessor will permit us. They lead from sin to grace. 
Over these golden roads we pass from naughtiness to holi- 
ness, from little love to great love." 

“Bless you, my child," said the priest, “and all of you. 
And now, my Oswy," he went on, turning to a poppy- 
cheeked boy, ''give us your reading of the shield." 

“The golden bridge is heaven, and the silver river is 
earth," said the lad quickly and shyly. “It is good for us 
that we should not play too far from the bridge." (Here 
several boys were moved to quiet laughter, but the speaker 


i6o THE RIDDLE OF THE SHIELD, 

himself only smiled and went on.) ‘If we lose sight of 
the bridge we may miss our way ; fighting back to it against 
the stream is always hard. Of course God and His Angels 
can see us from the bridge, however far we may have 
floated, but the river is dangerous and the sea of death is 
never so very far away. Therefore it is good for us to keep 
the Golden Bridge in sight.” 

“Thank you, my son,” said the monk, “that is a pretty 
sermon you have preached us. And now, Bede,” He said 
turning to a boy whose face seemed to defy seriousness. 

“The golden bridge is Silence : the silver river is Speech. 
My copy-book hath it that Speech is silvern, hut Silence is 
golden. The river is never quiet. Easily the rains flood it 
and the winds ruffle its current. Life upon it is beautiful 
but not without danger. Men’s voices are drowned in its 
babble. It hath its deep holes and its dangerous whirlpools. 
Now it singeth, and again it roareth heavily. But the bridge 
is ever silent and strong, stately and stationary. Upon it 
there is no upheaval. You are very safe and secure, stand- 
ing on its golden way. Life lies in front of you and behind 
you, and you may gaze upon the flowing waters — as from 
the cloister the monk may look upon the wild and weary 
ways of the world.” 

“Excellent! my child,” smiled the good Father. “And 
now, my little Alfred,” he said turning to one of the young- 
est boys, “let us have thy version of the shield.” 

“The river is the world and the bridge is Religion,” 
began the child. “When you are little you like two or 


THE RIDDLE OF THE SHIELD. i6i 

three silver coins better than a piece of gold. At least, I 
did. But I was very young and ignorant and I did not 
know. And of course the silver is very pretty and white 
and shining. Well, life on the river too is merry and glad — 
when the sun shines and the winds are warm, and when the 
boat rows smoothly and the fishes bite easily. And as you 
glide down it you see many knights and horses and men-at- 
arms, and anon you come to great cities and lofty towers 
and mighty castles. And as you go on and on the pictures 
ever change, and there is always something that amuses 
and interests. And yet, methinks for some the golden 
bridge is safer, and the life lived thereon more fair and 
comely.’^ 

Audibly the Precentor blessed the little one, and the 
Master turned suddenly to a curly-haired youngster who 
appeared to be half-asleep. 

^‘To me,” said the dreamy-looking lad, ‘'the bridge is an 
emblem of stability, just as the river is a picture of mobility. 
Men cannot always live upon the water, and even those who 
love ships and boats seem to me ever happier on land than 
upon the sea. For though the dangers of the high-road be 
many and great, yet the perils of the deep are greater. Ever 
restless is the water, whether it be that of the river or of the 
sea. ‘Unstable as water thou shalt not excel,’ said Jacob to 
Ruben. Yet if so be that the bridge be built firmly and well, 
how solid and stable it remains! Therefore in comparison 
with the water it is truly gold, for it beareth upon its back 
men and women and little children ; yea^ and horses. 


i 62 


THE RIDDLE OF THE SHIELD. 


and entire armies of soldiers, and every sort of merchandise. 
And for the soul of the bridge-builder do v^e not sing 
Requiem and Dirige, and is he not regarded as a benefactor, 
great almost as one who buildeth a minster or a cloister? 
Wherefore say I, though the river be beautiful and fair as 
a long unrolled mirror of silver, the bridge is fairer far and 
in comparison is of the most refined gold.” 

“And you, my Edward,” the monk said when he had 
smiled upon and praised the last reader, “what doth the 
shield say to thee?” 

“Father,” began the boy, “it speaks to me loudly of 
knight-errantry. The bridge signifies the golden deeds of 
a valiant knight. Methinks that he of the Seven Ways — 
which I take to have been the Seven Deadly Sins — avoided 
them all and took the bridge of valour and fought thereon 
and gained a mighty boon. For he fought at sunset and 
with his face to the holy east, and though the golden sun- 
light lay heavily upon the bridge his eyes were not dazzled, 
and he kept his gaze away from the silver water that flowed 
beneath and from the rays of the westering sun. But for 
him and for all time that bridge became transfigured, and 
he placed it upon his shield as an abiding memory. And 
the white water flows unceasingly to show that the passing 
of years is a small matter compared with the golden deed of 
valour which, though it may seem to belong to the past, 
makes itself felt unto the end of time.” 

The Sub-Prior clapped his hands and mentally resolved 
that every reader should shortly have a pittance. 


THE RIDDLE OF THE SHIELD, 163 

^‘And what has Louis written?’’ asked the Master, as he 
turned towards one of the youngest children present. 

“The silver river,” read Louis, “I take to be an image of 
that great stream of saints which even from the first ages 
of the Church has flowed unbrokenly from its source at the 
foot of Christ’s Cross, and will one day be entirely lost in 
the vast ocean of Eternal Beatitude. But the golden bridge 
typifies fitly and sweetly our most fair Lady the Virgin 
Mother of God. She is in truth the Golden Bridge over 
which her most Holy Child Jesus passed from Heaven to 
earth. She is the bridge by which we poor exiles of earth 
pass over into the Paradise of God. High above all the 
saints is she, even as the bridge of gold spans the ever-rush- 
ing and always-silvery river. Beneath her flows that silver 
stream of saintly souls, ever bright and beautiful in its shin- 
ing but never reaching to her dignity and perfection, ever 
gladly flowing under her golden shadow on its way to the 
eternal sea.” 

“May Mary with her Holy Child bless you!” exclaimed 
the Precentor, “and all of you.” 

“We have time but for one more ere Vespers,” said the 
Master. “You have written rather more than the rest, my 
Jerome: let us hear it.” 

“My thought was like unto Sigebert’s,” said the boy look- 
ing at his paper, “but with a difference.” Then he began 
to read. “To me the bridge speaks of stability, and the river 
of that which is ever moving, ever journeying, and ever 
mingling with the turmoil of the life upon its banks. Yet 


i64 


THE RIDDLE OF THE SHIELD. 


it is pure silver, that lovely river, white and shining, now 
blue with the blueness of the sky, now grey or dim with the 
gloom of the rain-filled clouds. But its life is very sweet 
and salutary, for it contains within itself great store of life- 
giving fishes which become the food of the poor and of re- 
ligious men and schoolboys. Upon its bosom it beareth the 
labourer’s little bark alike with the rich man’s barge. Also 
it carrieth from hamlet to town, and from city to city, great 
wealth of every sort of merchandise, stone and timber for 
the building of churches and holy houses of religion, yea 
and every kind of stuff meet for the food of man — corn and 
wine and oil and fruit in plenty. Therefore do men love this 
silver stream, for that it is of such beauty in itself and of so 
great usefulness to them in their daily needs. And if it may 
be said by me a boy, and without offence, it mindeth me 
much of the good Friars, the zealous sons of St. Francis and 
St. Dominic whose life must often be a wandering one, not 
lived in one place for ever as is that of the children of our 
Holy Father Benedict — who mind me of that stable bridge 
of gold, so strong, so useful, so secure, so necessary to life’s 
wayfarer. Nay, if this also may be pardoned me, I think 
no comparison need be made, for I know not which be the 
more necessary for man’s solace, the river that runs through 
so many long miles of land, or the bridge that crosses the 
stream. Each in its place is necessary and altogether good, 
and if the bridge of St. Benedict be of wrought gold, as in 
very truth it is, the stream is of the purest silver, and I see the 
angels of God covering its surface with outspread wings, 


THE RIDDLE OF THE SHIELD, 


165 


going and returning upon its bosom as in Jacobis dream 
they ascended and descended the ladder that reached to 
Heaven/’ 

Scarcely had the boy finished his lection when the great 
bell in the central tower tolled for Vespers. 

‘'Tu aiitem, D online, miserere nobis/' sang the monks. 

And all the children chanted Deo gratias! 


A KNIGHTLY QUARTET. 


It was in the time of Geoffrey, Duke of Normandy, who, 
as you know, was also Count of Anjou. Some knights 
of Poictiers tried to take away from him a part of his terri- 
tory, and the result was a pitched battle in which four of 
the principal warriors were made prisoners. Fortunately 
for them the Duke loved not the shedding of blood for its 
own sake and, merciful man as he was, instead of taking 
their lives he sent them to be imprisoned in the Castle of 
Fous Milon. Joslin of Tours had them in custody, and 
though he made them exchange their steel armour for 
shackles and manacles of iron he treated them with all the 
kindness that was consistent with their safe keeping. 

For like his royal master Joslin was a true follower of the 
Gentle Christ, and in spite of the fact that his four prisoners 
had revolted against their lawful ruler, the Seneschal did 
not needlessly add to the rigours of their captivity. Doubt- 
less it was part of their punishment to be left in uncertainty 
as to their ultimate fate, for they knew that they had merited 
an ignominious death. 

Visiting them daily and taking care to see that while they 
had sufficient food they did not tamper with the irons 
that were strongly riveted upon their limbs, Joslin's 
heart was often moved to pity at the condition of men 
whose lives had been spent in fighting and in hunting, and 


A KNIGHTLY QUARTET. 167 

to whom the close confinement of a prison was so grievously 
painful. 

Yet one day when he asked them with a smile if they 
found their quarters tolerably comfortable, or if they would 
not prefer a wider pasturage, the four nobles regarded him 
suspiciously and at first refused to speak. 

“Surely,^’ said one of them at length, “it is not for you 
whose hands and feet are free and who can go in and out 
of the castle as you please, to mock at us who are so heavily 
fettered that we may scarcely walk the floor of our 
dungeon.'^ 

“Pardon me, sir knight,’’ answered Joslin, do not 
mock at you. My pity for you is very great, and if I could do 
anything to serve or help you most willingly would I do it.” 

“Well,” said another of the prisoners, “for my part, in 
order to regain my liberty I would willingly risk my life.” 

“So would we all,” the rest declared. 

“Listen to me,” began Joslin. “In a few days Duke 
Geoffrey himself will be at the castle. I shall of course make 
a grand feast in his grace’s honour, and the entire establish- 
ment will celebrate the event with great rejoicing. Now 
the people of your country excel in minstrelsy, do they not ? 
Indeed most of your knights are troubadours of a sort. It 
is in your nature to make songs and to sing them. You 
rhyme and chant as easily as you hunt and fight. Very well : 
do now what I desire you to do. Take the good Duke 
Geoffrey as the subject of a cantique. Let the four of you 
set to work at once: I will immediately supply you with 


i68 


A KNIGHTLY QUARTET. 


pens, ink, and parchment. Write the song to one of your 
most pleasing melodies and leave the rest to me. I will 
undertake that Geoffrey, Duke of Normandy and Count of 
Anjou, shall be brought where he may hear you sing every 
word of it.” 

The four knights exchanged amazed glances. Scarcely 
could they believe their ears. 

‘‘Well,” said Joslin as he watched a smile slowly widen- 
ing on the faces of the prisoners, “what think you of my 
plan? Are you inclined to adopt it?” 

“Most willingly !” exclaimed the captive knights. 

“We thank you and we bless you, sir, for your good- 
ness,” said one. 

“Pray God we may succeed in touching Duke Geoffrey’s 
heart,” said another. 

“It shall go hard with us if we cannot rhyme him a prayer 
for liberty,” remarked the third. 

“Could not the manacles be removed from our hands?” 
asked the fourth. “ ’Tis ill-writing in such bracelets as 
these.” 

But Joslin shook his head. 

“I owe a duty to my liege lord the Duke,” said he: “I 
may not remove a fetter. You have nearly half a yard’s 
length of chain between your wristlets : writing will not be 
difficult.” 

Joslin retired from the vaulted chamber, but quickly re- 
turned with two pages, each carrying strips of parchment, 
vessels of ink, and a quantity of quills. It was apparent 


A KNIGHTLY QUARTET. 


169 


that the spirits of the knights had already risen. Vanished 
was the hopeless look in each weather-beaten face. The four 
captives were alftiost joyous. 

For three days the knghts laboured at their verses, alter- 
nately writing and exercising their voices. The servfng- 
men who carried food to the dungeon were amazed to find 
these four stalwart nobles either scratching away at their 
parchment or making music that gradually grew more and 
more tuneful. 

On the fourth day Joslin himself descended to the prison, 
taking with him two or three smiths. 

*‘The Duke is here,” he announced, ‘T have come to give 
you directions and, for this day at least, to have 'you all re- 
lieved of your irons. You will have to climb up to the top 
of the tower, and ’tis as hard to mount steps in fetters as it 
is to sing in them. But now, listen to me. When you have 
reached the top of the tower keep a good look out. The 
moment you see the Duke enter the courtyard with me, lean 
over the battlements and begin to sing. Let your song be 
loud and clear. Keep up your spirits and hope for the best.” 

So saying, Joslin left the prisoners in charge of the smiths 
and some men-at-arms, and rejoined his royal guest. 

Half an hour later as Joslin was showing the Duke over 
the castle they passed into the inner courtyard. Scarcely 
had they set foot therein when the Duke became aware of 
the singing of a melody — sad yet sweet, and chanted by 
several powerful voices. Pausing in his walk he looked 
round to see where the singers had been placed. Like a 


170 


A KNIGHTLY QUARTET. 


man who hears the carolling of a bird and raises his eyes to 
the topmost bough of a tree, the Duke at length lifted his 
gaze to the tower that stood in front of him. 

With a pleased smile and a courteous bow he whispered 
his thanks to Joslin for this pleasant surprise, and began to 
fix his attention upon the words of the song. 

“But who are they who sing so melodiously and yet so 
beseechingly ?” inquired the Duke at length. 

“My lord,'’ replied Joslin, “they are your prisoners, the 
four knights of Poictiers." 

“Ah, the men who attacked my territory so unjustly?’' 

“Yes, my lord. But on such a day as this, a red-letter 
day indeed in the history of the Castle of Fous Milon, I 
thought it right to permit them to breathe a little fresh air. 
I need not say that they are strongly guarded.” 

“You did well, Joslin,” said the Duke. “But listen ! they 
are repeating their music. Let us hear it again.” 

From the battlements there floated clearly and strongly 
the following song : 

Lord of our liberty, 

List to our plea ! 

Pity our dreary 
Captivity ! 

We have sinned, and we suffer 
In sorrow and dole; 

O let not the iron 
Enter our soul ! 

Lord of our lives. 

Listen our lay! 

You walk in the light 
Of a gladsome day; 


A KNIGHTLY QUARTET. 171 

Let us not be entombed 
Till we reach life’s goal, 

O let not the iron 
Enter our soul ! 

Lord of sweet pity, 

We pray you with tears 
Remember the Saviour 
Who listens and hears ! 

Of our lands and our goods 
Take plentiful toll, 

But let not the iron 
Enter our soul! 

Liege Lord and Master, 

Pity and spare 
The sinners who greet you 
With penitent prayer: 

The vows we have broken ^ 

We long to make whole: 

Ah, let not the iron 
Enter our soul. 

As the song ceased the Duke sighed deeply and remained 
silent for a few moments. Then he turned to his host : 

“It is impossible not to pity them. God knows I have no 
desire to take vengeance upon my enemies.” 

“My lord,” replied Joslin, “these knights are no longer 
your enemies. Their liberty would place them among your 
most devoted subjects.” 

“Then go to them and say that I grant them a free par- 
don. Think you they might be invited to take part in our 
festivities to-day?” 

“But assuredly, if your lordship’s grace will permit it.” 

“Good. Let them have baths and fresh raiment, and 
they shall dine with us.” 


172 


A KNIGHTLY QUARTET. 


The four knights confessed afterwards that as, newly and 
richly clad, they were led into the great hall of the castle and 
saw the splendour of the banquet they could have swooned 
away for very joy. And indeed when they knelt before 
Duke Geoffrey and heard their pardon repeated by his own 
lips, they could only express their gratitude by shedding 
many tears. Yet as they mutely kissed his hand and raised 
their tear-stained eyes to his, the Duke was fully assured of 
the truth of Joslin^s words — “these knights are no longer 
numbered among your enemies.’^ 

Yet he would not permit them to take the oath of fealty 
to his person. 

“To-morrow,” said the Duke, “your horses and your 
arms will be restored to you. Return in peace to your own 
country. Now we will begin the banquet.” 


THE PITIFUL KNIGHT. 


Born at Florence just at the end of the tenth century, for 
many years of his life John Gualberto gave very little 
promise of sanctity. His parents were noble and rich, and 
John grew up proud, worldly, and pleasure-loving. Like so 
many young noblemen of his time he became a soldier. The 
period was a troubled one, and John found plenty of legiti- 
mate employment for his sword. 

The time came when he allowed himself to be mastered 
by the desire of using that weapon as an instrument of 
revenge. He had but one brother, Hugo, and this near and 
dear relation was foully murdered by a gentleman of the 
country — one account says a cousin of his victim. John’s 
resentment may be understood. The murderer seems to 
have placed himself out of the reach of the law, at any rate 
for a time, but John’s deadly purpose of avenging his 
brother’s death became the one fixed resolve of his life. Sad 
to say, he was encouraged to the commission of this crime 
by his own father. Worldly honour, they persuaded them- 
selves, demanded injury for injury. The passion of revenge 
blinded them. They forgot the law of God and the law of 
man. They did not reflect that two crimes do not make a 
virtue, or as the common phrase has it, two blacks do not 
make a white. It may be they persuaded themselves that 
they were moved by justice and not by revenge. 


174 


THE PITIFUL KNIGHT. 


Unexpectedly the opportunity of gratifying this impious 
desire presented itself. Fully armed and accompanied by 
his men, John was returning home to Florence when in a 
narrow passage he suddenly found himself face to face with 
his enemy who, though mounted, was unarmed and alone. 
Instantly John's sword leapt from its scabbard. Murder had 
long reigned in his heart: it was now to be consummated 
in act. 

The terrified man threw himself from his horse and fell 
upon his knees. With outstretched arms he pleaded for 
mercy. He reminded John of the day: it was Good Friday. 
By the passion and death of Jesus Christ who suffered on 
that day, and who while hanging upon the cross pardoned 
His enemies, the supplicant implored John to spare his life. 

One very important fact is mentioned in the early life of 
Gualberto. Not only was he taught the elements of learn- 
ing, but he was carefully instructed in the Christian Doc- 
trine. This precious possession, and the gift of Faith which 
he had never forfeited, now came to his aid. Grace was 
offered to him and he did not reject it. God spoke to him 
and he listened. The image of a Crucified Saviour flashed 
across his mental vision : he did not turn from it. His sword 
fell back into its sheath. Putting out his hand he raised his 
enemy from the ground. 

"‘What you ask me for the sake of Jesus Christ, I cannot 
refuse," he said. “Your life is your own, and my friendship 
also. Pray for me that God may forgive me my sin." 

The two men embraced and parted. After riding for 


THE PITIFUL KNIGHT. 


175 


some little distance, Gualberto came to the Benedictine 
Monastery of St. Minias. Going into the church the first 
object that presented itself was the Crucifix exposed on Good 
Friday for the veneration of the faithful. A great fervour 
of prayer seized the young soldier as he prostrated himself 
before the image of the Crucified, and with a devotion he 
had never imagined himself capable of he implored pardon 
of God for the terrible crime he had committed in his heart. 
And it is said that as he knelt there imploring God’s mercy, 
the figure of the dying Saviour on the cross bowed its head 
as if to assure him that he was already pardoned. 

This event proved to be the turning-point in Gualberto’s 
life. He had no mind to go back to a world that had once 
attracted him so powerfully : no longer did he wish to follow 
the profession of arms. Eagerly he besought the Abbot of 
the monastery to give him the religious habit. Fearing the 
displeasure of John’s father, the Abbot at first refused; 
afterwards the entreaties of this true penitent prevailed and 
Gualberto was allowed to remain in the cloister as a secular. 
In a few days, however, John cut off his flowing hair with 
his own hands and put on a borrowed habit. His father’s 
anger was great; but at length the son’s pleading overcame 
it and, giving him his blessing, the fierce old nobleman ex- 
horted him to persevere in his holy resolution. 

And now this true hero rapidly advanced in sanctity. He 
who had led such a careless life, and who for so long had 
gone about the world with murder in his heart, gave himself 
entirely to God. No half measures could content him. So 


176 


THE PITIFUL KNIGHT. 


holy became his life in Religion that when the Abbot died 
the monks did all they could to persuade John Gualberto to 
accept the office of Superior. He not only refused but, with 
one companion, went to the Hermitage of Camoldoli in 
quest of a yet stricter life. Greatly cheered and edified by 
the fervour of the Camoldolese hermits, he pushed his way 
to a further solitude, a shady valley planted with willows. 
Here at a place called Vallis-Umbrosa, half a day’s journey 
from his native town of Florence, he found two devout her- 
mits. His proposal to build a small monastery of wood with 
walls of mud, and to form a little community, was accepted 
by these two holy men, and from this foundation rose the 
Order of Vallis-Umbrosa. 

Though the Saint was compelled to be the first Abbot of 
this new house, his humility refused not only the dignity of 
the priesthood and Sacred Orders, but even that of Minor 
Orders. He died happily and holily on July 12, 1073, at 
the age of seventy-four, leaving behind him twelve houses of 
this Order. 

The life of St. John Gualberto gives us an instance of a 
great sinner who became a great saint. It helps us also to 
understand the high value that Almighty God sets upon the 
forgiveness of injuries. We can easily imagine the feelings 
of a man whose only brother has been foully murdered. A 
fuller, a freer, or a more generous act of forgiveness than 
this of the young Florentine soldier can scarcely be found 
in history. God rewarded it immediately and richly. 


THE KNIGHTS AVE. 


In castle- walls a Robber-Knight 
Held men-at-arATis to thieve and fight: 
For rapine and dark crimes of blood 
Dreaded by all that neighbourhood. 

Came by that place upon a day 
A holy priest in habit grey, 

And as he neared the castle grim 
A robber-groom rushed out on him. 

'Take all I bear,’’ the pilgrim said, 

" ’Tis but a loaf of barley-bread: 

But bring me quickly to your lord : 

For his soul’s weal I’d speak a word.” 

The caitiff led the stranger in 
Where sat at board the Knight of Sin : 
"Sir Knight,” the pilgrim said, "I bear 
A secret it behoves you hear. 

"But first call in your robber-band 
And let them all in order stand.” 
Summoned was every man and boy 
In that bad master’s base employ. 


178 


THE KNIGHTS AVE. 


^‘All are not here,” the pilgrim cried, 

As one by one on every side 
He scanned them — even to the least : 

‘'One man is missing,” urged the priest. 

“I know who his,” spoke up a page, 

A saucy lad of tender age; 

“The chamberlain ran off to bed, 

Hoping to hide his ugly head.” 

Forthwith was bidden to appear 
The varlet every page did fear : 

Soon stood within the castle hall 
A wretch whose features did appal. 

Stern spoke the priest : “I thee conjure 
By Christ and His own Mother pure. 

Tell us who art thou, and from whence. 
Why art thou here, and then — go hence!” 

Trembling, the chamberlain replied: 

“Alas ! myself I may not hide I 
No man am I, but — must I tell? — 

I am a devil sent from hell! 

“My master, Satan, bade me come 
To watch yon Knight within his home. 
To ’wait the coming of a day 
When Ave he’d no longer say: 


THE KNIGHTS AVE. 


m 


'Then with my hands on throat and neck 
To strangle him, his soul to wreck, 

And bear him to his doom most fit 
Deep down into the fiery pit. 

"But woe is me ! for day by day 
Hail Mary doth he ever say. 

And I am powerless ’gainst the charms 
Of her who held God in her arms.” 

The pilgrim answered, "Wicked sprite! 

Back to thy home in lasting night ! / 

Hence, and for ever, to thy place ! 

This soul through Mary hath found grace.” 

The Knight in contrite tears did melt. 

As prostrate Tore the priest he knelt; 

Fell on the band a wondrous awe. 

Gladsome the sight the angels saw. 









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